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CONTAINED  IN  THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY  (POCKET  EDITION): 

NO.  PRICE. 

97  All  in  a Garden  Fair  . . . . . 20 

137  Uncle  Jack 10 

140  A Glorious  Fortune 10 

146  Love  Finds  the  Way,  and  Other  Stories.  By  Besant 

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906  The  World  Went  Very  Well  Then  ....  20 

980  To  Call  Her  Mine 20 

1055  Katharine  Begina 20 

1065  Herr  Paulus:  His  Bise,  His  Greatness,  and  His  Fall  . 20 
1151  For  Faith  and  Freedom 20 


/ ZS'J 

v.t 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


CHAPTER  I. 

FAREWELL  SUNDAY. 

The  morning  of  Sunday,  August  the  23d,  in  the  year  of 
grace  1662,  should  have  been  black  and  gloomy,  with  the 
artillery  of  rolling  thunder,  dreadful  flashes  of  lightning,  and 
driving  hail  and  wind  to  strip  the  orchards  and  lay  low  the 
corn.  For  on  that  day  was  done  a thing  which  filled  the  whole 
country  with  grief,  and  bore  bitter  fruit  in  after-years  of  re- 
venge and  rebellion.  Because  it  was  the  day  before  that 
formerly  named  after  Bartholomew  the  disciple,  it  hath  been 
called  the  Black  Bartholomew  of  England,  thus  being  likened 
with  that  famous  day  (approved  by  the  Pope)  when  the  French 
Protestants  were  treacherously  massacred  by  their  king.  It 
should  rather  be  called  “Farewell  Sunday/*  or  “ Exile  Sun- 
day/* because  on  that  day  two  thousand  godly  ministers 
preached  their  last  sermon  in  the  churches  where  they  had 
labored  worthily  and  with  good  fruit,  some  during  the  time  of 
the  Protector,  and  some  even  longer,  because  among  them 
were  a few  who  possessed  their  benefices  even  in  the  time  of 
the  late  King  Charles  the  First.  And  since  on  that  day  two 
thousand  ministers  left  their  churches  and  their  houses,  and 
laid  down  their  worldly,  wealth,  for  conscience*  sake,  there  were 
also  as  many  wives  who  went  with  them,  and,  I dare  say,  three 
or  four  times  as  many  innocent  and  helpless  babes.  And, 
further  (it  is  said  that  the  time  was  fixed  by  design  and  deliber- 
ate malice  of  our  enemies),  the  ministers  were  called  upon  to 
make  their  choice  only  a week  or  two  before  the  day  of  the 
collection  of  their  tithes.  In  other  words,  they  were  sent  forth 
to  the  world  at  the  season  when  their  purses  were  the  leanest; 
indeed,  with  most  country  clergymen,  their  purses  shortly  be- 
fore the  collection  of  tithes  became  well-nigh  empty.  It  was 
also  unjust  that  their  successors  should  be  permitted  to  collect 
tithes  due  to  those  who  were  ejected. 

It  is  fitting  to  begin  this  history  with  the  Black  Bartholo- 

777885 


6 


FOR  FAITH  AETD  FREEDOM. 


mew,  because  all  the  troubles  and  adventures  which  afterward 
befell  us  were  surely  caused  by  that  accursed  day.  One  knows 
not,  certainly,  what  other  rubs  might  have  been  ordained  for 
us  by  a wise  Providence  (always  with  the  merciful  design  of 
keeping  before  our  eyes  the  vanity  of  worldly  things,  the  in- 
stability of  fortune,  the  uncertainty  of  life,,  and  the  wisdom  of 
looking  for  a hereafter  which  shall  be  lasting,  stable,  and  sat- 
isfying to  the  soul).  Still,  it  must  be  confessed,  such  trials  as 
were  appointed  unto  us  were,  in  severity  and  continuance,  far 
beyond  those  appointed  to  the  ordinary  sort,  so  that  I can  not 
'but  feel  at  times  uplifted  (I  hope  not  sinfully)  at  having  been 
called  upon  to  endure  so  much.  Let  me  not,  however,  be 
proud.  Had  it  not  been  for  this  day,  for  certain,  our  boys 
would  not  have  been  tempted  to  strike  a blow — vain  and  use- 
less as  it  proved — for  the  Protestant  religion  and  for  liberty  of 
conscience;  while  perhaps  I should  now  be  forbidden  to  relate 
our  sufferings,  were  it  not  for  the  glorious  Revolution  which 
has  restored  toleration,  secured  the  Protestant  ascendency,  and 
driven  into  banishment  a prince  concerning  whom  all  honest 
men  pray  that  he  and  his  son  (if  he  have,  indeed,  a son  of  his 
own)  may  never  again  have  authority  over  this  realm. 

This  Sunday,  I say,  should  have  wept  tears  of  rain  over  the 
havoc  which  it  witnessed;  yet  it  was  fine  and  clear,  the  sun 
riding  in  splendor,  and  a warm  summer  air  blowing  among 
the  orchards  and  over  the  hills  and  around  the  village  of  Brad- 
ford Orcas,  in  the  shire  of  Somerset.  The  wheat  (for  the  sea- 
son was  late)  stood  gold-colored  in  the  fields,  ready  at  last  for 
the  reaper;  the  light  breeze  bent  down  the  ears  so  that  they 
showed  like  waves  over  which  the  passing  clouds  make  light 
and  shade;  the  apples  in  the  orchards  were  red  and  yellow  and 
nearly  ripe  for  the  press;  in  the  gardens  of  the  Manor  House, 
hard  by  the  church,  the  sunflowers  and  the  hollyhocks  were  at 
their  tallest  and  their  best;  the  yellow  roses  on  the  wall  were 
still  in  clusters;  the  sweet-peas  hung  with  tangles  of  vine  and 
flower  upon  their  stalks;  the  bachelor’s-buttons,  the  sweet 
mignonette,  the  nasturtium,  the  gillyflowers  and  stocks,  the 
sweet-williams  and  the  pansies,  offered  their  late  summer  blos- 
soms to  the  hot  sun  among  the  lavender,  thyme,  parsley,  sage, 
feverfew,  and  vervain  of  my  lady’s  garden.  Oh!  I know  how 
it  all  looked,  though  I was  yet  unborn.  How  many  times 
have  I stood  in  the  church-yard  and  watched  the  same  scene 
at  the  same  sweet  season!  On  a week-day  one  hears  the  thump- 
ing and  the  groaning  of  the  mill  below  the  church;  there  are 
the  voices  of  the  men  at  work — the  yo-hoing  of  the  boys  who 
drive,  and  the  lumbering  of  the  carts.  You  can  even  hear  the 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


7 


spinning-wheels  at  work  in  the  cottages.  On  Sunday  morning 
everything  is  still,  save  for  the  warbling  of  the  winged  tribe  in 
the  wood,  the  cooing  of  the  doves  in  the  cot,  the  clucking  of 
the  hens,  the  grunting  of  the  pigs,  and  the  droning  of  the 
bees.  These  things  disturb  not  the  meditations  of  one  who  is 
accustomed  to  them. 

At  eight  o’clock  in  the  morning,  the  sexton,  an  ancient  man 
and  rheumatic,  hobbled  slowly  through  the  village,  key  in 
hand,  and  opened  the  church  door.  Then  he  went  into  the 
tower  and  rung  the  first  bell.  I suppose  this  bell  is  designed 
to  hurry  housewives  with  their  morning  work,  and  to  ad- 
monish the  men  that  they  incline  their  hearts  to  a spiritual 
disposition.  This  done,  the  sexton  set  open  the  doors  of  the 
pews,  swept  out  the  squire’s  and  the  rector’s  in  the  chancel, 
dusted  the  cushions  of  the  pulpit  (the  reading-desk  at  this  time 
was  not  used),  opened  the  clasps  of  the  great  Bible,  and  swept 
down  the  aisle,  as  he  had  done  Sunday  after  Sunday  for  fifty 
years.  When  he  had  thus  made  the  church  ready  for  the  day’s 
service,  he  went  into  the  vestry,  which  had  only  been  used  since 
the  establishment  of  the  Commonwealth  for  the  registers  of 
birth,  death  and  marriage. 

At  one  side  of  the  vestry  stood  an  ancient  black  oak  coffer, 
the  sides  curiously  graven,  and  a great  rusty  key  in  the  lock. 
The  sexton  turned  the  key  with  some  difficulty,  threw  open 
the  lid  and  looked  in. 

“ Ay,”  he  said,  chuckling,  “the  old  surplice  and  the  old 
Book  of  Common  Prayer.  Ye  have  had  a long  rest;  ’tis  time 
for  both  to  come  out  again.  When  the  surplice  is  out,  the 
book  will  stay  no  longer  locked  up.  These  two  go  in  and  out 
together.  I mind  me,  now — ” Here  he  sat  down,  and  his 
thoughts  wandered  for  a space;  perhaps  he  saw  himself  once 
more  a boy  running  in  the  fields,  or  a young  man  courting  a 
maid.  Presently  he  returned  to  the  task  before  him,  and  drew 
forth  an  old  and  yellow  roll,  which  he  shook  out.  It  was  the 
surplice,  which  had  once  been  white.  “Here  you  are,”  he 
said;  “ put  you  away  for  a matter  of  twelve  year  or  more  and 
you  bide  your  time;  you  know  you  will  come  back  again;  you 
are  not  in  any  hurry.  Even  the  sexton  dies;  but  you  die  not, 
you  bide  your  time.  Everything  comes  again.  The  old  wom- 
an shall  give  you  a taste  o’  the  suds  and  the  hot  iron.  Thus 
we  go  up  and  thus  we  go  down.  ” He  put  back  the  surplice 
and  locked  the  great  Book  of  Common  Prayer — musty  and 
damp  after  twelve  years’  imprisonment.  “Fy!”  he  said; 
“ the  leather  is  parting  from  the  boards,  and  the  leaves  they 
do  stick  together.  Shalt  have  a pot  of  paste,  and  then  lie  in 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


§ 

the  sun,  before  thou  goest  back  to  the  desk;  whether  ’tis  mass 
or  Common  Prayer,  whether  ’tis  Independent  or  Presbyterian, 
folk  mun  still  die  and  be  buried — ay,  and  married  and  born — 
whatever  they  do  say.  Parson  goes  and  preacher  comes; 
preacher  goes  and  parson  comes;  but  sexton  stays — ” He 
chuckled  again,  put  back  the  surplice  and  the  book,  and 
locked  the  coffer.  Then  he  slowly  went  down  the  church  and 
came  out  of  the  porch,  blinking  in  the  sun  and  shading  his  old 
eyes.  He  sat  down  upon  the  flat  stones  of  the  old  cross,  and 
presently  nodded  his  head  and  dropped  off  asleep. 

It  was  a strange  indifference  in  the  man.  A great  and  truly 
notable  thing  was  to  be  accomplished  that  day.  But  he  cared 
nothing.  Two  thousand  godly  and  learned  men  were  to  go 
forth  into  poverty  for  liberty  of  conscience;  this  man’s  own 
minister  was  one  of  them.  He  cared  nothing.  The  king  was 
sowing  the  seed  from  which  should  spring  a rod  to  drive  forth 
his  successor  from  the  kingdom.  In  the  village  the  common 
sort  were  not  moved.  Nothing  concerns  the  village  folk  but 
the  weather  and  the  market  prices.  As  for  the  good  sexton, 
he  was  very  old;  he  had  seen  the  Church  of  England  displaced 
by  the  Presbyterians,  and  the  Presbyterians  by  the  Independ- 
ents, and  now  these  were  again  to  be  supplanted  by  the  Church 
of  England.  He  had  been  sexton  through  all  these  changes. 
He  heeded  them  not;  why,  his  father,  sexton  before  him, 
could  remember  when  the  mass  was  said  in  the  church  and  the 
Virgin  was  worshiped,  and  the  folk  were  driven  like  sheep  to 
confession.  All  the  time  the  people  went  on  being  born  and 
marrying  and  dying.  Creed  doth  not  truly  affect  these  things 
nor  the  sexton’s  work.  Therefore  this  old  gaffer,  having  made 
sure  that  the  surplice  was  in  the  place  where  it  had  lain  undis- 
turbed for  a dozen  years,  and  remembering  that  it  must  be 
washed  and  ironed  for  the  following  Sunday,  sat  down  to  bask 
in  the  sun,  his  mind  at  rest,  and  dropped  off  into  a gentle 
sleep. 

At  ten  o’clock  the  bell-ringers  came  tramping  up  the  stone 
steps  from  the  road,  and  the  sexton  woke  up.  At  ten  they 
used  to  begin  their  chimes,  but  at  the  hour  they  ring  for  five 
minutes  only,  ending  with  the  clash  of  all  five  bells  together. 
At  a quarter  past  ten  they  chime  again,  for  the  service,  which 
begins  at  half  past  ten. 

At  the  sound  of  these  chimes  the  whole  village  begins  to 
move  slowly  toward  the  church.  First  come  the  children,  the 
bigger  ones  leading  those  who  are  little  by  the  hand;  the  boys 
come  next,  but  unwillingly,  because  the  sexton  is  diligent  with 
his  cane,  and  some  of  those  who  now  go  up  the  steps  to  the 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


9 


church  will  come  down  with  smarting  backs,  the  reward  of 
those  who  play  or  laugh  during  the  service.  Then  come  the 
young  men,  who  stand  about  the  church-yard  and  whisper  to 
each  other.  After  them  follow  the  elders  and  the  married 
men,  with  the  women  and  the  girls.  Five  minutes  before  the 
half  hour  the  ringers  change  the  chime  for  a single  bell.  Then 
those  who  are  outside  gather  in  the  porch  and  wait  for  the 
quality. 

When  the  single  bell  began  there  came  forth  from  the 
rectory  the  rector  himself,  Mr.  Comfort  Eykin,  Doctor  of 
Divinity,  who  was  this  day  to  deliver  his  soul  and  lay  down  his 
charge.  He  wore  the  black  gown  and  Geneva  bands,  for  the 
use  of  which  he  contended.  At  this  time  he  was  a young  man 
of  thirty — tall  and  thin.  He  stooped  in  the  shoulders  because 
he  was  continually  reading;  his  face  was  grave  and  austere;  his 
nose  thin  and  aquiline;  his  eyes  bright — never  was  any  man 
with  brighter  eyes  than  my  father;  his  hair,  which  he  wore 
long,  was  brown  and  curly;  his  forehead  high,  rather  than 
broad;  his  lips  were  firm.  In  these  days,  as  my  mother  hath 
told  me,  and  as  I well  believe,  he  was  a man  of  singular  comeli- 
ness, concerning  which  he  cared  nothing.  Always  from  child- 
hood upward  he  had  been  grave  in  conversation  and  seriously 
inclined  in  mind.  If  I think  of  my  father  as  a boy  (no  one 
ever  seems  to  think  that  his  father  was  once  a boy),  I am  fain 
to  compare  him  with  Humphrey,  save  for  certain  bodily  de- 
fects, my  father  having  been  like  a priest  of  the  altar  for  bodily 
perfection.  That  is  to  say,  I am  sure  that,  like  Humphrey, 
he  had  no  need  of  rod  or  ferule  to  make  him  learn  his  lessons, 
and,  like  that  dear  and  fond  friend  of  my  childhood,  he  would 
willingly  sit  in  a corner  and  read  a book  while  the  other  boys 
played  and  went  a-h unting  or  a-nesting.  And  very  early  in 
life  he  was  smitten  with  the  conviction  of  sin,  and  blessed  with 
such  an  inward  assurance  of  salvation  as  made  him  afterward 
steadfast  in  all  afflictions. 

He  was  not  a native  of  this  country,  having  been  born  in 
New  England.  He  came  over,  being  then  eighteen  years  of 
age,  to  study  at  Oxford,  that  university  being  purged  of  malign- 
nan  ts,  and  at  the  time  entirely  in  the  hands  of  the  godly.  He 
was  entered  of  Balliol  College,  of  which  Society  he  became  a 
Fellow,  and  was  greatly  esteemed  for  his  learning,  wherein  he 
excelled  most  of  the  scholars  of  his  time.  He  knew  and  could 
red  Hebrew,  Chaldee,  and  the  ancient  Syriac,  as  well  as  Latin 
and  Greek.  Of  modern  languages  he  had  acquired  Arabic,  by 
the  help  of  which  he  had  read  the  book  which  is  called  the 
Koran  of  the  False  Prophet  Mohammed;  French  and  Italian 


10 


FOE  FAITH  AHD  FKEEDOM. 


he  also  knew  and  could  read  easily.  As  for  his  opinions,  he 
was  an  Independent,  and  that  not  meekly  or  with  hesitation, 
but  with  such  zeal  and  vehemence  that  he  considered  all  who 
differed  from  him  as  his  personal  enemies  — nay,  the  very 
enemies  of  God.  For  this  reason,  and  because  his  personal 
habits  were  too  austere  for  those  who  attained  not  to  his 
spiritual  height,  he  was  more  feared  than  loved.  Yet  his  party 
looked  upon  him  as  their  greatest  and  stoutest  champion. 

He  left  Oxford  at  the  age  of  five-  or  six-and-twenty,  and 
accepted  the  living  of  Bradford  Orcas,  offered  him  by  Sir  Chris- 
topher Challis  at  that  place.  Here  he  had  preached  for  six 
years,  looking  forward  to  nothing  else  than  to  remain  there, 
advancing  in  grace  and  wisdom,  until  the  end  of  his  days.  So 
much  was  ordered,  indeed,  for  him;  but  not  quite  as  he  had 
designed.  Let  no  man  say  that  he  knoweth  the  future,  or  that 
he  can  shape  out  his  destiny.  You  shall  hear  presently  how 
Benjamin  arrogantly  resolved  that  his  future  should  be  what 
he  chose;  and  what  came  of  that  impious  resolution. 

My  father’s  face  was  always  austere;  this  mornings  it  was 
more  serious  and  sterner  than  customary,  because  the  day  was 
to  him  the  most  important  in  his  life,  and  he  was  about  to  pass 
from  a position  of  plenty  (the  Rectory  of  Bradford  Orcas  is  not 
rich,  but  it  affords  a sufficiency)  to  one  of  penury.  Those  who 
knew  him,  however,  had  no  doubt  of  the  course  he  was  about 
to  take.  Even  the  rustics  knew  that  their  minister  would 
never  consent  to  wear  a surplice,  or  to  read  the  Book  of  Com- 
mon Prayer,  or  to  keep  holy  days — you  have  seen  how  the  sex- 
ton opened  the  box  and  took  out  the  surplice;  yet  my  father 
had  said  nothing  to  him  concerning  his  intentions. 

In  his  hand  he  carried  his  Bible — his  own  copy;  I have  it 
still,  the  margins  covered  with  notes  in  his  writing — bound  in 
black  leather,  worn  by  constant  handling,  with  brass  clasps. 
Upon  his  head  he  had  a plain  black  silk  cap,  which  he  wore 
constantly  in  his  study  and  at  meals  to  keep  off  draughts.  In- 
deed, I loved  to  see  him  with  the  silk  cap  rather  than  with  his 
tall  steeple  hat,  with  neither  ribbon  nor  ornament  of  any  kind, 
in  which  he  rode  when  he  afterward  went  about  the  country  to 
break  the  law  in  exhorting  and  praying  with  his  friends. 

Beside  him  walked  my  mother,  holding  in  her  hand  her  boy, 
my  brother  Barnaby,  then  three  years  of  age.  As  for  me,  I 
was  not  yet  born.  She  had  been  weeping;  her  eyes  were  red 
and  swollen  with  tears;  but  when  she  entered  the  church  she 
wept  no  more,  bravely  listening  to  the  words  which  condemned 
to  poverty  and  hardship  herself  and  her  children,  if  any  more 
should  be  born  to  her.  Alas,  poor  soul!  What  had  she  done 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


11 


that  this  affliction  should  befall  her?  What  had  her  innocent 
boy  done?  For  upon  her,  not  upon  her  husband,  would  fall 
the  heavy  burden  of  poverty,  and  on  her  children  the  loss. 
Yet  never  by  a single  word  of  complaint  did  she  make  her 
husband  sorry  that  he  had  obeyed  the  voice  of  conscience,  even 
when  there  was  nothing  left  in  the  house,  not  so  much  as  the 
widow's  cruse  of  oil.  Alas,  poor  mother,  once  so  free  from 
care,  what  sorrow  and  anxiety  wert  thou  destined  to  endure  for 
the  tender  conscience  of  thy  husband! 

At  the  same  time — namely,  at  the  ringing  of  the  single  bell 
— -there  came  forth  from  the  Manor  House  hard  by  the  church 
his  Honor  Sir  Christopher,  with  his  family.  The  worthy  knight 
was  then  about  fifty  years  of  age,  tall  and  handsome  still;  in 
his  later  years  there  was  something  of  a heavenly  sweetness  in 
his  face,  created,  I doubt  not,  by  a long  life  of  pious  thoughts 
and  worthy  deeds.  His  hair  was  streaked  with  gray,  but  not 
yet  white;  he  wore  a beard  of  the  kind  called  stiletto,  which 
was  even  then  an  ancient  fashion,  and  he  was  dressed  more 
soberly  than  is  common  with  gentlemen  of  his  rank,  having  no 
feather  in  his  hat,  but  a simple  ribbon  round  it,  and  though 
his  ruffles  were  of  lace  and  the  kerchief  round  his  neck  was 
lace,  the  color  of  his  coat  was  plain  brown.  He  leaned  upon 
a gold-headed  cane,  on  account  of  an  old  wound  (it  was  in- 
flicted by  a cavalier's  musket-ball  when  he  was  a captain  in  the 
army  of  Lord  Essex).  The  wound  left  him  somewhat  lame, 
yet  not  so  lame  but  that  he  could  very  well  walk  aLout  his 
fields,  and  could  ride  his  horse,  and  even  hunt  with  the  otter- 
hounds. By  his  side  walked  madame  his  wife.  After  him 
came  his  son,  Humphrey,  newly  married,  and  with  Humphrey 
his  wife;  and  last  came  his  son-in-law,  the  Reverend  Philip 
Boscorel,  M.A.,  late  Fellow  of  All-Souls'  College,  Oxford,  also 
newly  married,  with  his  wife,  Sir  Christopher's  daughter 
Patience.  Mr.  Boscorel,  like  my  father,  was  at  that  time  thirty 
years  of  age.  Like  him,  too,  his  face  was  comely  and  his  feat- 
ures fine,  yet  they  lacked  the  fire  and  the  earnestness  which 
marked  my  father.  And  in  his  silken  cassock,  his  small  white 
hands,  his  lace  ruffles,  and  his  dainty  walk,  it  seemed  as  if  Mr. 
Boscorel  thought  himself  above  the  common  run  of  mankind, 
and  of  superior  clay.  'Tis  sometimes  the  way  with  scholars 
and  those  who  survey  the  world  from  the  eminence  of  a library. 

Sir  Christopher's  face  was  full  of  concern,  because  he  loved 
the  young  man  who  was  this  day  to  throw  away  his  livelihood; 
and  although  he  was  ready  himself  to  worship  after  the  man- 
ner prescribed  by  law,  his  opinions  were  rather  Independent 
than  Episcopalian.  As  for  Mr.  Boscorel,  who  was  about  to 


12 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


succeed  to  the  ejected  minister,  his  face  wore  no  look  of  tri- 
umph, which  would  have  been  ungenerous.  He  was  observed, 
indeed,  after  he  had  silently  gone  through  the  service  of  the 
day  with  the  help  of  a prayer-book,  to  listen  diligently  unto 
the  preacher. 

The  people,  I have  already  said,  knew  already  what  was 
about  to  happen.  Perhaps  some  of  them  (but  I think  not) 
possessed  a copy  of  the  old  prayer-book.  This,  they  knew,  was 
to  be  restored,  with  the  surplice,  and  the  observance  of  holy 
days,  feasts,  and  fasts,  and  the  kneeling  at  the  administration 
of  the  Holy  Communion.  Our  people  are  craftsman  as  much 
as  they  are  rustics;  every  week  the  master-clothiers*  men  drive 
their  pack-horses  into  the  village  laden  with  wool,  and  return 
with  yarn;  they  are  not,  therefore,  so  brutal  and  sluggish  as 
most;  yet  they  made  no  outward  show  of  caring  whether 
Prelacy  or  Independence  was  to  have  the  sway.  Perhaps  the 
abstruse  doctrines  which  my  father  loved  to  discuss  were  too 
high  for  them;  perhaps  his  austerity  was  too  strict  for  them, 
so  that  he  was  not  beloved  by  them.  Perhaps,  even,  they 
would  have  cared  little  if  they  had  heard  that  Bishop  Bonner 
himself  was  coming  back.  Religion,  to  country  folks,  means, 
mostly,  the  going  to  church  on  Sunday  morning.  That  done, 
man*s  service  of  prayer  and  praise  to  his  Creator  is  also  done. 
If  the  form  be  changed,  the  Church  remains,  and  the  church- 
yard; one  shepherd  folio  we  th  another,  but  the  flock  is  always 
the  same.  Revolutions  overthrow  kings,  and  send  great  heads 
to  the  block;  but  the  village  heedeth  not,  unless  civil  war  pass 
that  way.  To  country  folk,  what  difference?  The  sky  and 
the  fields  are  unchanged.  Under  Queen  Mary  they  are  Papists; 
under  Queen  Elizabeth  they  are  Protestants.  They  have  the 
prayer-book  under  King  James  and  King  Charles;  under  Oliver 
they  have  had  the  Presbyterian  and  Independent  services;  now 
they  have  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer  and  the  surplice  again. 
Yet  they  remain  the  same  people,  and  tell  the  same  stories, 
and,  so  far  as  I know,  believe  the  same  things,  viz.,  that  Jesus 
Christ  saves  the  soul  of  every  man  who  truly  believes  in  Him. 
Why,  if  it  were  not  for  his  immortal  soul — concerning  which 
he  takes  but  little  thought — the  rustic  might  be  likened  unto 
the  patient  beast  whom  he  harnesseth  to  his  plow  and  to  his 
muck-cart.  He  change  th  no  more;  he  works  as  hard;  he  is 
as  long-enduring;  his  eyes  and  his  thoughts  are  as  much  bound 
by  the  hedge,  the  lane  and  the  field;  he  thinks  and  invents 
and  advances  no  more.  Were  it  not,  I say,  for  the  Church, 
he  would  take  as  little  heed  of  anything  as  his  ox  or  his  ass; 
his  village  would  become  his  country;  his  squire  would  become 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


13 


his  king;  the  nearest  village  would  become  the  camp  of  an 
enemy;  and  he  would  fall  into  the  condition  of  the  ancient 
Briton  when  J ulius  Caesar  found  every  tribe  fighting  against 
every  other. 

I talk  as  a fool.  For  sometimes  there  falls  upon  the  torpid 
soul  of  the  rustic  a spark  which  causes  a mighty  flame  to  blaze 
up  and  burn  fiercely  within  him.  I have  read  how  a simple 
monk,  called  Peter  the  Hermit,  drew  thousands  of  poor,  illiter- 
ate, credulous  persons  from  their  homes,  and  led  them,  a mob 
armed  with  scythes  and  pikes,  across  Europe  to  the  deserts  of 
Asia  Minor,  where  they  miserably  perished.  I have  read  also 
of  Jack  Cade,  and  how  he  drew  the  multitudes  after  him,  cry- 
ing aloud  for  justice  or  death.  And  I myself  have  seen  these 
sluggish  spirits  suddenly  fired  with  a spirit  which  nothing  could 
subdue.  The  sleeping  soul  I have  seen  suddenly  starting  into 
life;  strength  and  swiftness  have  I seen  suddenly  put  into 
sluggish  limbs;  light  and  fire  have  I seen  gleaming  suddenly 
in  dull  and  heavy  eyes.  Oh!  it  was  a miracle;  but  I have  seen 
it.  And,  having  seen  it,  I can  not  despise  these  lads  of  the 
plow,  these  honest  boys  of  Somerset,  nor  can  I endure  to  hear 
them  laughed  at  or  contemned. 

Bradford  Orcas,  in  the  Hundred  of  Horethorne,  Somerset, 
is  a village  so  far  from  the  great  towns  that  one  would  think  a 
minister  might  have  gone  on  praying  and  preaching  after  his 
own  fashion  without  being  discovered.  But  the  arm  of  the 
law  is  long. 

The  nearest  town  is  Sherborne,  in  Dorsetshire,  to  which 
there  is  a bridle-path  across  the  fields;  it  is  the  market-town 
for  the  villages,  round  it.  Bradford  Orcas  is  a very  obscure 
little  village,  with  no  history  and  no  antiquities.  It  stands  in 
the  south-eastern  corner  of  the  county,  close  to  the  western 
declivity  of  the  Cotton  Hills,  which  here  sweep  round  so  as  to 
form  a valley,  in  which  the  village  is  built  along  the  banks  of 
a stream.  The  houses  are  for  the  most  part  of  stone,  with 
thatched  roofs,  as  is  the  custom  in  our  country;  the  slopes  of 
the  hills  are  covered  with  trees,  and  round  the  village  there 
stand  goodly  orchards,  the  cider  from  which  can  not  be  sur- 
passed. As  for  the  land,  but  little  of  it  is  arable;  the  greater 
part  is  a sandy  loam  or  stone  brash.  The  church  which 
in  the  superstitious  days  was  dedicated  to  St.  Nicolas  is  built 
upon  a hillock,  a rising  ground  in  the  west  of  the  village. 
This  building  of  churches  upon  hillocks  is  a common  custom 
in  our  parts,  and  seemeth  laudable,  because  a church  should 
stand  where  it  can  be  seen  by  all  the  people,  and  by  its  pres- 
ence remind  them  of  Death  and  of  the  Judgment.  This 


14 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


practice  doth  obtain  at  Sherborne,  where  there  is  a very  noble 
church,  and  at  Huish  Episcopi,  and  at  many  other  places  in 
our  county.  Our  church  is  fair  and  commodious,  not  too  large 
for  the  congregation,  having  in  the  west  a stone  tower  em- 
battled, and  consisting  of  a nave  and  chancel,  with  a very  fine 
roof  of  carved  wood-work.  There  is  an  ancient  yew-tree  in  the 
church-yard,  from  which  in  old  times  bows  were  cut;  some  of 
the  bows  yet  hang  in  the  great  hall  of  the  Manor  House. 
Among  the  graves  is  an  ancient  stone  cross,  put  up  no  man 
knows  when,  standing  in  a six-sided  slab  of  stone,  but  the  top 
was  broken  off  at  the  time  of  the  Reformation;  two  or  three 
tombs  are  in  the  church-yard,  and  the  rest  is  covered  with 
mounds,  beneath  which  lie  the  bones  and  dust  of  former  gen- 
erations. 

Close  to  the  church-yard,  and  at  the  north-east  corner,  is  the 
Manor  House,  as  large  as  the  church  itself,  but  not  so  ancient. 
It  was  built  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VII.  A broad  arched  gate- 
way leads  into  a court,  wherein  is  the  entrance  to  the  house. 
Over  the  gate-way  is  a kind  of  tower,  but  not  detached  from 
the  house.  In  the  wall  of  the  tower  is  a panel,  lozenge-shaped, 
in  which  are  carved  the  arms  of  the  Chaliis  family.  The  house 
is  stately,  with  many  gables,  and  in  each  casement  windows 
set  in  richly  carved  stone  tracery.  As  for  the  rooms  within 
the  house,  I will  speak  of  them  hereafter.  At  present  I have 
the  church-yard  in  my  mind.  There  is  no  place  upon  the 
earth  which  more  I love.  To  stand  in  the  long  grass  among 
the  graves;  to  gaze  upon  the  wooded  hills  beyond,  the  orchards, 
the  meadows,  the  old  house,  the  venerable  church,  the  yew- 
tree;  to  listen  to  the  murmur  of  the  stream  below,  and  the 
singing  of  the  lark  above;  to  feel  the  fresh  breeze  upon  my 
cheek — oh!  I do  this  daily.  It  makes  me  feel  young  once 
more;  it  brings  back  the  days  when  I stood  here  with  the  boys, 
and  when  Sir  Christopher  would  lean  over  the  wall  and  dis- 
course with  us  gravely  and  sweetly  upon  the  love  of  God  and 
the  fleeting  joys  of  earth  (which  yet,  he  said,  we  should  accept 
and  be  happy  withal  in  thankfulness),  and  the  happiness  un- 
speakable that  awaiteth  the  Lord's  saints.  Or,  if  my  thoughts 
continue  in  the  past,  the  grave-yard  brings  back  the  presence 
and  the  voice  of  Mr.  Boscorel. 

“ In  such  a spot  as  this,"  he  would  say,  speaking  softly  and 
slowly,  “ the  pastorals  of  Virgil  or  Theocritus  might  have  been 
written.  Here  would  the  shepherds  hold  their  contests. 
Certainly  they  could  find  no  place,  even  in  sunny  Sicily,  or  at 
Mantua  itself,  where  (save  for  three  months  in  the  year)  the 
air  is  more  delightful.  Here  they  need  not  to  avoid  the  burning 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


15 


heat  of  a sun  which  gently  warms,  but  never  burns;  here  they 
would  find  the  shade  of  the  grove  pleasant  in  the  soft  summer 
season.  Innocent  lambs  instead  of  kids  (which  are  tasteless) 
play  in  our  meadows;  the  cider  which  we  drink  is,  I take  it, 
more  pleasing  to  the  palate  than  was  their  wine  flavored  with 
turpentine.  And  our  viols,  violins,  and  spinets  are  instru- 
ments more  delightful  than  the  oaten  pipe,  or  the  cithara 
itself.”  Then  would  he  wave  his  hand,  and  quote  some  poet 
in  praise  of  a country  life — 

“ There  is  no  man  but  may  make  his  paradise, 

And  it  is  nothing  but  his  love  and  dotage 

Upon  the  world’s  foul  joys  that  keeps  him  out  on’t. 

For  he  that  lives  retired  in  mind  and  spirit 
Is  still  in  Paradise.” 

“But,  child,”  he  would  add,  with  a sigh,  “one  may  not 
always  wish  to  be  in  Paradise.  The  world's  joys  lie  elsewhere. 
Only,  when  youth  is  gone — then  Paradise  is  best.  ” 

The  service  began  after  the  manner  of  the  Independents, 
with  a long  prayer,  during  which  the  people  sat.  Mr.  Bos- 
corel,  as  I have  said,  went  through  his  own  service  in  silence, 
the  Book  of  Common  Prayer  in  his  hand.  After  the  prayer, 
the  minister  read  a portion  of  Scripture,  which  he  expounded 
at  length  and  with  great  learning.  Then  the  congregation 
sung  that  psalm  which  begins — 

“ Triumphing  songs  with  glorious  tongue 
Let’s  offer  unto  Him.” 

This  done,  the  rector  ascended  the  pulpit  for  the  last  time, 
gave  out  his  text,  turned  his  hour-glass,  and  began  his  ser- 
mon. 

He  took  for  his  text  those  verses  in  St.  PauPs  Second  Epistle 
to  the  Corinthians,  vi.  3-10,  in  which  the  Apostle  speaks  of  his 
own  ministry  as  if  he  was  actually  predicting  the  tribulation 
which  was  to  fall  upon  these  faithful  preachers  of  a later  time — 
“ In  much  patience,  in  affliction,  in  necessities,  in  distresses, 
in  stripes,  in  imprisonments,  in  tumults,  in  labor,  in  watch- 
ings, in  fastings  ” — could  not  the  very  words  be  applied  to  my 
father? 

He  read  the  text  three  times,  so  that  everybody  might  fully 
understand  the  subject  upon  which  he  was  to  preach — namely, 
the  faithfulness  required  of  a minister  of  the  gospel.  I need 
not  set  down  the  arguments  he  used  or  the  reasons  he  gave  for 
his  resolution  not  to  conform  with  the  Act  of  Uniformity. 
The  rustics  sat  patiently  listening,  with  no  outward  sign  of 


16 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


assent  or  of  sympathy.  But  their  conduct  afterward  proved 
abundantly  to  which  side  their  minds  inclined.  As  for  me,  I 
am  a woman,  and  therefore  inclined  to  obey  the  voice  of  au- 
thority, so  that,  had  I been  born  a Papist,  such  I should  have 
continued;  and  I am  now  a member  of  the  Church  of  England 
because  my  husband  is  of  that  Church,  yet  not  of  the  kind 
which  is  called  High. 

It  behooves  us  all  to  listen  with  respect  when  scholars  and 
wise  men  inquire  into  the  reasons  of  things.  Yet  the  preach- 
ings and  expositions  which  such  as  my  father  bestowed  upon 
their  flocks  did  certainly  awaken  men’s  minds  to  consider  by 
themselves  the  things  which  many  think  too  high  for  them. 
It  is  a habit  which  may  lead  to  the  foundation  of  false  and 
pernicious  sects.  And  it  certainly  is  not  good  that  men  should 
preach  the  doctrines  of  the  Anabaptists,  the  Fifth  Monarchy 
men,  or  the  Quakers.  Yet  it  is  better  that  some  should  be 
deceived  than  that  all  should  be  slaves.  I have  been  assured 
by  one — I mean  Humphrey — who  hath  traveled,  that  in  those 
countries  where  the  priest  taketh  upon  himself  the  religion  of 
the  people,  so  that  they  think  to  be  saved  by  attending  mass, 
by  fasting,  confession,  penance,  and  so  forth,  that  not  only 
does  religion  itself  become  formal,  mechanical,  and  inanimate, 
but  in  the  very  daily  concerns  and  business  of  life  men  grow 
slothful  and  lack  spirit.  Their  religion,  which  is  the  very  heat 
of  the  body,  the  sustaining  and  vital  force  of  all  man’s  action, 
is  cold  and  dead.  Therefore  all  the  virtues  are  cold  also,  and 
with  them  the  courage  and  the  spirit  of  the  people.  Thus  it  is 
that  Italy  hath  fallen  aside  into  so  many  small  and  divided 
kingdoms.  And  for  this  reason  Spain,  in  the  opinion  of  those 
who  know  her  best,  is  now  falling  rapidly  into  decay. 

I am  well  assured  by  those  who  can  remember  that  the  in- 
telligence of  the  village  folk  greatly  increased  during  the  period 
when  they  were  encouraged  to  search  the  Scriptures  for  them- 
selves. Many  taught  themselves  to  read,  others  had  their 
children  taught,  in  order  that  they  might  read  or  hear  daily 
portions  of  the  Scriptures.  It  is  now  thirty  years  since  au- 
thority resumed  the  rule;  the  village  folk  have  again  become, 
to  outward  seeming,  sheep  who  obey  without  questioning. 
Yet  it  is  observed  that  when  they  are  within  reach  of  a town 
— that  is  to  say,  of  a meeting-house — they  willingly  flock  to 
the  service  in  the  afternoon  and  evening. 

It  was  with  the  following  brave  words  that  my  father  con- 
cluded his  discourse: 

“ Seeing,  therefore,  my  brethren,  how  clear  is  the  Word  of 
God  on  these  points,  and  considering  that  we  must  always  obey 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


17 


God  rather  than  man,  and  observing  that  here  we  plainly  see 
the  finger  of  God  pointing  to  disobedience  and  its  consequence, 
I am  constrained  to  disobey.  The  consequence  will  be  to  me 
that  I shall  stand  in  this  place  no  more;  to  you,  that  you  will 
have  a stranger  in  your  church.  I pray  that  he  may  be  a 
godly  person,  able  to  divide  the  Word,  learned  and  acceptable. 

“ As  for  me,  I must  go  forth,  perhaps  from  among  you  alto- 
gether. If  persecutions  arise,  it  may  behoove  me  and  mine  to 
seek  again  that  land  beyond  the  seas  whither  my  fathers  fled 
for  the  sake  of  religious  liberty.  Whatever  happens,  I must 
fain  preach  the  gospel.  It  is  laid  upon  me  to  preach.  If  I 
am  silent,  it  will  be  as  if  Death  itself  had  fallen  upon  me.  My 
brethren,  there  have  been  times — and  those  times  may  return 
— when  the  elect  have  had  to  meet  secretly,  on  the  sides  of 
barren  hills  and  in  the  heart  of  the  forest,  to  pray  together  and 
to  hear  the  Word.  I say  that  these  times  may  return.  If  they 
do,  you  will  find  me  willing,  I hope  and  pray,  to  brave  for  you 
the  worst  that  our  enemies  can  devise.  Perhaps,  however, 
this  tyranny  may  pass  over.  Already  the  Lord  hath  achieved 
one  great  deliverance  for  this  ancient  realm.  Perhaps  another 
may  be  in  His  secret  purposes  when  we  have  been  chastened, 
as,  for  our  many  sins,  we  richly  deserve.  Whether  in  affliction 
or  in  prosperity  let  us  always  say,  4 The  Lord's  name  be 
praised!' 

4 4 Now,  therefore,  for  the  sand  is  running  low,  and  I may 
not  weary  the  young  and  the  impatient,  let  me  conclude. 
Farewell,  sweet  Sabbaths!  Farewell,  the  sweet  expounding  of 
the  Word!  Farewell,  sweet  pulpit!  Farewell,  sweet  faces  of 
the  souls  which  I have  yearned  to  present  pure  and  washed 
clean  before  the  Throne!  My  brethren,  I go  about  henceforth 
as  a dog  which  is  muzzled;  another  man  will  fill  this  pulpit; 
our  simple  form  of  worship  is  gone;  the  prayer-book  and  the 
surplice  have  come  back  again.  Pray  God  we  see  not  Con- 
fession, Penance,  the  Mass,  the  Inquisition,  the  inslavement 
of  conscience,  the  stake,  and  the  martyr's  ax!" 

Then  he  paused  and  bowed  his  head,  and  everybody  thought 
that  he  had  finished. 

He  had  not.  He  raised  it  again,  and  threw  out  his  arms, 
mid  shouted  aloud,  while  his  eyes  glowed  like  fire. 

“No!  I will  not  be  silent.  I will  not.  I am  sent  into 
the  world  to  preach  the  gospel.  I have  no  other  business.  I 
must  proclaim  the  Word  as  1 hope  for  everlasting  life;  breth- 
ren, we  shall  meet  again.  In  the  woods  and  on  the  hills  we 
shall  find  a temple;  there  are  houses  where  two  or  three  may 
be  gathered  together,  the  Lord  Himself  being  in  their  midst. 


18 


FOB  FAITH  AND  FBEEDOM. 


Never  doubt  that  I am  ready,  in  season  and  out  of  season, 
whatever  be  the  law,  to  preach  the  gospel  of  the  Lord!’* 

He  ended,  and  straightway  descended  the  pulpit  stair,  and 
stalked  out  of  the  church,  the  people  looking  after  him  with 
awe  and  wonder.  But  Mr.  Boscorel  smiled  and  wagged  his 
head,  with  a kind  of  pity. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  BBEAD- WINNER. 

Thus  did  my  father,  by  his  own  act  and  deed,  strip  himself 
of  all  his  worldly  wealth.  Yet,  having  nothing,  he  ceased  not 
to  put  his  trust  in  the  Lord,  and  continued  to  sit  among  his 
books,  never  asking  whence  came  the  food  provided  for  him. 
1 think,  indeed,  so  wrapped  was  he  in  thought,  that  he  knew 
not.  As  for  procuring  the  daily  food,  my  mother  it  was  who 
found  out  the  way. 

Those  who  live  in  other  parts  of  this  kingdom  do  not  know 
what  a busy  and  populous  country  is  that  of  Somerset.  Apart 
from  the  shipping  and  the  great  trade  with  Ireland,  Spain, 
and  the  West  Indies  carried  on  from  the  Port  of  Bristol,  we 
have  our  great  manufactures  of  cloth,  in  which  we  are  sur- 
passed by  no  country  in  the  world.  The  town  of  Taunton 
alone  can  boast  of  eleven  hundred  looms  always  at  work  mak- 
ing sagathies  and  Des  Roys;  there  are  many  looms  at  Bristol, 
where  they  make  for  the  most  part  druggets  and  cantaloons; 
then  they  are  in  great  numbers  at  that  rich  and  populous  town 
of  Frome  Selwood,  where  they  manufacture  the  Spanish  med- 
leys. Besides  the  cloth-workers,  we  have,  in  addition,  our 
knitted-stocking  trade,  which  is  carried  on  mostly  at  Glaston- 
bury and  Shepton  Mallet.  Not  only  does  this  flourishing  trade 
make  the  masters  rich  and  prosperous  (it  is  not  uncommon  to 
find  a master  with  his  twenty — ay,  and  his  forty — thousand 
pounds),  but  it  fills  all  the  country  with  work,  so  that  the 
towns  are  frequent,  populous,  and  full  of  everything  that  men 
can  want;  and  the  very  villages  are  not  like  those  which  may 
be  seen  in  other  parts,  poor  and  squalid,  but  well  built  and 
comfortable. 

Every  cottage  has  its  spinning-wheel.  The  mother,  when 
she  is  not  doing  the  work  of  the  house,  sits  at  the  wheel;  the 
girls,  when  they  have  nothing  else  to  do,  are  made  to  knit 
stockings.  Every  week  the  master-clothier  sends  round  his 
men  among  the  villages,  their  pack-horses  laden  with  wool; 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM.  19 

every  week  they  return,  their  packs  laden  with  yarn,  ready  for 
the  loom. 

There  is  no  part  of  England  where  the  people  are  more  pros- 
perous and  more  contented.  Nowhere  are  there  more  towns, 
and  all  thriving;  nowhere  are  the  villages  better  built;  nor  can 
one  find  anywhere  else  more  beautiful  churches.  Because  the 
people  make  good  wages  they  are  independent  in  their  man- 
ners; they  have  learned  things  supposed  to  he  above  the^tation 
of  the  humble;  most  of  them  in  the  towns,  and  many  in  the 
villages,  are  able  to  read.  This  enables  them  to  search  the 
Scriptures  and  examine  into  doctrine  by  the  light  of  their  own 
reason,  guided  by  grace.  And  to  me,  the  daughter  of  a Non- 
conforming  preacher,  it  does  not  seem  wonderful  that  so  many 
of  them  should  have  become  stiff  and  sturdy  Non-conformists. 
This  was  seen  in  the  year  1685,  and  again,  two  or  three  years 
later,  when  a greater  than  Monmouth  landed  on  the  western 
shores. 

My  mother,  then,  seeing  no  hope  that  her  husband  would 
earn,  by  any  work  of  his  own,  the  daily  bread  of  the  house- 
hold, bravely  followed  the  example  of  the  women  in  the  vil- 
lage. That  is  to  say,  she  set  up  her  spinning-wheel,  and  spent 
all  the  time  that  she  could  spare  spinning  the  wool  into  yarn; 
while  she  taught  her  little  boy  first,  and  afterward  her  daugh- 
ter— as  soon  as  I was  old  enough  to  manage  the  needles — to 
knit  stockings.  What  trade,  indeed,  could  her  husband  fol- 
low save  one — and  that,  by  law,  prohibited?  He  could  not 
dig;  he  could  not  make  anything;  he  knew  not  how  to  buy  or 
sell;  he  could  only  study,  write,  and  preach.  Therefore,  while 
he  sat  among  his  books  in  one  room,  she  sat  over  her  wheel  in 
the  other,  working  for  the  master-clothiers  of  Erome  Selwood. 
It  still  makes  my  heart  to  swell  with  pity  and  with  love  when 
I think  upon  my  mother,  thus  spending  herself  and  being 
spent,  working  all  day,  huckstering  with  the  rough  pack-horse 
men,  more  accustomed  to  exchange  rude  jests  with  the  rustics 
than  to  talk  with  gentlewomen.  And  this  she  continued  to  do 
year  after  year,  cheerful  and  contented,  so  that  her  husband 
should  never  feel  the  pinch  of  poverty.  Love  makes  us  will- 
ing slaves. 

My  father,  happily,  was  not  a man  whose  mind  was  troubled 
about  food.  He  paid  no  heed  at  all  to  what  he  eat,  provided 
that  it  was  sufficient  for  his  needs;  he  would  sip  his  broth  of 
pork  and  turnips  and  bread,  after  thanks  rendered,  as  if  it  was 
the  finest  dish  in  the  world;  and  a piece  of  cold  bacon  with  a 
hot  cabbage  would  be  a feast  for  him.  The  cider  which  ho 
drank  was  brewed  by  my  mother  from  her  own  apples;  to  him 


20 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


it  was  as  good  as  if  it  had  been  Sherris  or  Khenish.  I say  that 
he  did  not  even  know  how  his  food  was  provided  for  him;  his 
mind  was  at  all  times  occupied  with  subjects  so  lofty  that  he 
knew  not  what  was  done  under  his  very  eyes.  The  hand  of 
God,  he  said,  doth  still  support  His  faithful.  Doubtless  we 
can  not  look  back  upon  those  years  without  owning  that  we 
were  so  supported.  But  my  mother  was  the  instrument;  nay, 
my  father  sometimes  even  compared  himself  with  satisfaction 
unto  the  Prophet  Elijah,  whom  the  ravens  fed  in  the  Brook 
Cherith,  bringing  him  flesh  and  bread  in  the  morning,  and 
flesh  and  bread  in  the  evening.  I suppose  my  father  thought 
that  his  bacon  and  beans  came  to  him  in  the  same  manner. 

Yet  we  should  sometimes  have  fared  but  poorly  had  it  not 
been  for  the  charity  of  our  friends.  Many  a fat  capon,  green 
goose,  side  of  bacon,  and  young  grunter  came  to  us  from  the 
Manor  House,  with  tobacco,  which  my  father  loved,  and  wine 
to  comfort  his  soul;  yea,  and  clothes  for  us  all,  else  had  we 
gone  barefoot  and  in  rags.  In  this  way  was  many  an  ejected 
Elijah  at  that  time  nourished  and  supported.  Fresh  meat  we 
should  never  have  tasted,  any  more  than  the  humblest  around 
us,  had  it  not  been  for  our  good  friends  at  the  Manor  House. 
Those  who  live  in  towns  can  not  understand  how  frugal  and 
yet  sufficient  may  be  the  fare  of  those  who  live  in  the  country 
and  have  gardens  and  orchards.  Cider  was  our  drink,  which 
we  made  ourselves;  we  had  some  sweet  apple-trees,  which  gave 
us  a stock  of  russets  and  pippins  for  winter  use;  we  had  bees 
(but  we  sold  most  of  our  honey);  our  garden  grew  salads  and 
onions,  beans  and  the  like;  skim-milk  we  could  have  from  the 
Manor  House  for  the  fetching;  for  breakfast  we  had  bread  and 
milk,  for  dinner  bread  and  soft  cheese,  with  a lettuce  or  an 
apple;  and  bread  or  bread  and  butter  for  supper.  For  my 
father  there  was  always  kept  a piece  of  bacon  or  fat  pork. 

Our  house  was  one  of  the  cottages  in  the  village;  it  is  a stone 
house  (often  I sit  down  to  look  at  it,  and  to  remember  those 
days  of  humility)  with  a thick  thatch.  It  had  two  rooms  below 
and  two  garrets  above.  One  room  was  made  into  a study  or 
library  for  my  father,  where  also  he  slept  upon  a pallet.  The 
other  was  kitchen,  spinning-room,  parlor,  all  in  one.  The 
door  opened  upon  the  garden,  and  the  floor  was  of  stone,  so 
that  it  was  cold.  But  when  Barnaby  began  to  find  the  use  of 
his  hands  he  procured  some  boards,  which  he  laid  upon  the 
stones,  and  so  we  had  a wooden  floor;  and  in  winter  across  the 
door  we  hung  a curtain  to  keep  off  the  wind. 

The  walls  were  whitewashed,  and  over  all  my  mother  had 
written  texts  of  Scripture  with  charcoal,  so  that  godly  admoni- 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


21 


tion  was  ever  present  to  our  eyes  and  minds.  She  also  em- 
broidered short  texts  upon  our  garments,  and  I have  still  the 
cradle  in  which  I was  laid,  carved  (but  I do  not  know  by  whose 
hand)  with  a verse  from  the  Word  of  God.  My  father  used 
himself,  and  would  have  us  employ,  the  words  of  the  Bible 
even  for  the  smaller  occasions  of  daily  use;  nor  would  he  allow 
that  anything  was  lawful  unless  it  was  sanctioned  by  the  Bible, 
holding  that  in  the  Word  was  everything  necessary  or  lawful. 
Did  Barnaby  go  shooting  with  Sir  Christopher  and  bring  him 
a rabbit — Lo!  David  bade  the  children  of  Israel  teach  the  use 
of  the  bow.  Did  my  mother  instruct  and  amuse  me  with  rid- 
dles— she  had  the  warrant  of  scripture  for  it  in  the  example  of 
'Samson.  Did  she  sing  psalms  and  spiritual  songs  to  while 
away  the  time  and  make  her  work  less  irksome  and  please  her 
little  daughter — in  the  congregation  of  Nehemiah  there  were 
two  hundred  forty-and-five  singing  men  and  singing  women. 

My  father  read  and  expounded  the  Bible  to  us  twice  a day — 
morning  and  evening.  Besides  the  Bible  we  had  few  books 
which  we  could  read.  As  for  my  mother,  poor  soul,  she  had 
no  time  to  read.  As  for  me,  when  I grew  older  I borrowed 
books  from  the  Manor  House  or  Mr.  Boscorel.  And  there 
were  “ Old  Mr.  Dod"s  Sayings”  and  “ Plain  Directions  by 
Joseph  Large  ” always  on  the  shelf  beside  the  Bible. 

How,  while  my  father  worked  in  his  study,  and  my  brother 
Barnaby  sat  over  his  lesson-book,  his  hands  rammed  into  his 
hair,  as  if  determined  to  lose  nothing,  not  the  least  scrap  of 
his  portion  (yet  knowing  full  well  that  on  the  morrow  there 
would  be  not  a word  left  in  his  poor  unlucky  noddle,  and  once 
more  the  whip),  my  mother  would  sit  at  her  wheel  earning  the 
daily  bread.  And  when  I was  little,  she  would  tell  me,  speak- 
ing very  softly,  so  as  not  to  disturb  the  wrestling  of  her  hus- 
band with  a knotty  argument,  all  the  things  which  you  have 
heard — how  my  father  chose  rather  poverty  than  to  worship 
at  the  altar  of  Baal;  and  how  two  thousand  pious  ministers, 
like-minded  with  himself,  left  their  pulpits  and.  went  out  into 
the  cold  for  conscience"  sake.  So  that  I was  easily  led  to 
think  that  there  were  no  Christian  martyrs  and  confessors 
more  excellent  and  praiseworthy  than  these  ejected  ministers 
(which  still  I believe). y Then  would  she  tell  me  further  of 
how  they  fared,  and  how  the  common  people  do  still  reverence 
them.  There  was  the  history  of  John  Norman,  of  Bridge- 
water;  Joseph  Chadwick,  of  Wrenford;  Felix  Howe,  of  West 
Torrington;  George  Minton,  and  many  others.  She  also  in- 
structed me  very  early  in  the  history  of  the  Protestant  upris- 
ing  over  the  best  half  of  Europe,  and  showed  me  how,  against 


22 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


fearful  odds,  and  after  burnings  and  tortures  unspeakable,  the 
good  people  of  Germany,  the  Netherlands,  and  Great  Britain 
won  their  freedom  from  the  pope,  so  that  my  heart  glowed 
within  me  to  think  of  the  great  goodness  and  mercy  which 
caused  me  to  be  born  in  a Protestant  country.  She  also  in- 
structed me,  later,  in  the  wickedness  of  King  Charles,  whom 
they  now  call  a martyr,  and  in  the  plots  of  that  king,  and 
Laud,  his  archbishop,  and  how  king  and  archbishop  were  both 
overthrown  and  perished  when  the  people  arose  and  would  bear 
no  more.  In  fine,  my  mother  made  me,  from  the  beginning, 
a Puritan.  As  I remember  my  mother  always,  she  was  pale 
of  cheek  and  thin;  her  voice  was  gentle;  yet  with  her  very 
gentleness  she  would  make  the  blood  to  run  quick  in  the  veins, 
and  the  heart  to  beat. 

How  have  I seen  the  boys  spring  to  their  feet  when  she  has 
talked  with  them  of  the  great  civil  war  and  the  Restoration! 
But  always  soft  and  gentle;  her  blue  eyes  never  flashing;  no 
wrath  in  her  heart;  but  the  truth,  which  often  cause th  righteous 
anger,  always  upon  her  tongue. 

One  day,  I remember,  when  I was  a little  girl  playing  in  the 
garden,  Mr.  Boscorel  walked  down  the  village  in  his  great 
silken  gown,  which  seemed  always  new,  his  lace  ruffs,  and  his 
white  bands  looking  like  a bishop  at  least,  and  walking  deli- 
cately, holding  up  his  gown  to  keep  it  from  the  dust  and  mud. 
When  he  spoke  it  was  in  a mincing  speech,  not  like  our  rough 
Somersetshire  ways.  He  stopped  at  our  gate,  and  looked 
down  the  garden.  It  was  a summer  day;  the  doors  and  win- 
dows of  the  cottage  were  open;  at  our  window  sat  my  father 
bending  over  his  books,  in  his  rusty  gown  and  black  cap,  thin 
and  lank;  at  the  door  sat  my  mother  at  her  wheel. 

“ Child,”  said  the  rector,  “ take  heed  thou  never  forget  in 
thine  age  the  thing  which  thou  seest  daily  in  thy  childhood. 99 

I knew  not  what  he  meant. 

“ Read  and  mark,”  he  said;  “ yea,  learn  by  heart  what  the 
wise  man  hath  said  of  the  good  woman:  ‘ She  layeth  her  hand 
to  the  spindle  . . . she  maketh  fine  linen  and  selleth  it  . . . 
she  eateth  not  the  bread  of  idleness.  . . . Let  her  works 
praise  her  in  the  gates. 9 99 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  BOYS. 

The  family  of  Challis,  of  Bradford  Orcas,  is  well  known; 
here  there  has  always  been  a Challis  from  time  immemorial. 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


23 


They  are  said  to  have  been  on  the  land  before  the  time  of  the 
Conqueror.  But  because  they  have  never  been  a great  family 
like  the  Mohuns  of  Funster,  but  only  modest  gentlefolk  with 
some  four  or  five  hundred  pounds  a year,  they  have  not  suf- 
fered, like  those  great  houses,  from  the  civil  wars,  which,  when 
they  raged  in  the  land,  brought  in  their  train  so  many  at- 
tainders, sequestrations,  beheadings,  imprisonments,  and  fines. 
Whether  the  barons  fought,  or  whether  Cavaliers  and  Round- 
heads,  the  Challises  remained  at  Bradford  Orcas. 

Since  the  land  is  theirs  and  the  village,  it  is  reasonable  that 
they  should  have  done  everything  that  has  been  done  for  the 
place.  One  of  them  built  the  church,  but  I know  not  when;' 
another  built  the  tower;  another  gave  the  peal  of  bells.  He 
who  reigned  here  in  the  time  of  Henry  VII.  built  the  Manor 
House;  another  built  the  mill;  the  monuments  in  the  church 
are  all  put  up  to  the  memory  of  Challises  dead  and  gone;  there 
is  one,  a very  stately  tomb,  which  figures  to  -the  life  Sir  Will- 
iam Challis  (who  died  in  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth),  carved 
in  marble,  and  colored,  kneeling  at  a desk;  opposite  to  him  is 
his  second  wife,  Grace,  also  kneeling.  Behind  the  husband 
are  three  boys,  on  their  knees,  and  behind  the  wife  are  three 
girls.  Apart  from  this  group  is  the  effigy  of  Filipa,  Sir  Chris- 
topher’s first  wife,  with  four  daughters  kneeling  behind  her. 
I was  always  sorry  for  Filipa,  thus  separated  and  cut  off  from 
the  society  of  her  husband.  There  are  brasses  on  the  floor 
with  figures  of  other  Challises,  and  tablets  in  the  wall,  and  the 
Challises’  coat  of  arms  is  everywhere  cut  in  lozenges,  painted 
on  wood,  and  shining  in  the  east  window.  It  always  seemed 
to  me,  in  my  young  days,  that  it  was  the  grandest  thing  in  the 
world  to  be  a Challis. 

In  this  family  there  was  a laudable  practice  with  the  younger 
sons,  that  they  stayed  not  at  home,  as  is  too  often  their  cus- 
tom, leading  indolent  lives,  without  ambition  or  fortune,  but 
they  sallied  forth  and  sought  fortune  in  trade,  or  in  the  law,  or 
in  the  Church,  or  in  foreign  service — wherever  fortune  is  to  be 
honorably  won — so  that,  though  I dare  say  some  have  proved 
dead  and  dry  branches,  others  have  put  forth  flowers  and  fruit 
abundantly,  forming  new  and  vigorous  trees  sprung  from  the 
ancient  root.  Thus,  some  have  become  judges,  and  some 
bishops,  and  some  great  merchants;  some  have  crossed  the 
ocean  and  are  now  settled  in  the  plantations;  some  have  at- 
tained rank  and  estates  in  the  service  of  Austria.  Thus,  Sir 
Christopher’s  brother  Humphrey  went  to  London  and  became 
a Levant  merchant  and  adventurer,  rising  to  great  honor,  and 
becoming  alderman.  I doubt  not  that  he  would  have  been 


24 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


made  lord  mayor  but  for  his  untimely  death.  And  as  for  his 
wealth,  which  was  rumored  to  be  so  great — but  you  shall  hear 
of  this  in  due  time. 

That  goodly  following  of  his  household  which  you  have  seen 
enter  the  church  on  Farewell  Sunday  was  shortly  afterward 
broken  into  by  death.  There  fell  upon  the  village  (I  think  it 
was  in  the  year  1665)  the  scourge  of  a putrid  fever,  of  which 
there  died,  besides  numbers  of  the  village  folk,  madame  her- 
self— the  honored  wife  of  Sir  Christopher — Humphrey  his  son, 
and  Mme.  Patience  Boscorel,  his  daughter.  There  were  left  to 
Sir  Christopher,  therefore,  only  his  daughter-in-law  and  his  in- 
fant grandson  Robin.  And  in  that  year  his  household  was 
increased  by  the  arrival  of  his  grandnephew  Humphrey.  This 
child  was  the  grandson  of  Sir  Christopher’s  brother,  the  Tur- 
key or  Levant  merchant  of  whom  I have  spoken.  He  was 
rich  and  prosperous:  his  ships  sailed  out  every  year  laden  with 
I know  not  what,*  and  returned  with  figs,  dates,  spices,  gums, 
silks,  and  all  kinds  of  precious  commodities  from  eastern 
parts.  It  is,  I have  been  told,  a profitable  trade,  but  subject 
to  terrible  dangers  from  Moorish  pirates,  who  must  be  bravely 
fought  and  beaten  off,  otherwise  ship  and  cargo  will  be  taken, 
and  captain  and  crew  driven  into  slavery.  Mr.  Challis  lived  in 
Thames  Street,  close  to  Tower  Hill.  It  is  said  that  he  lived 
here  in  great  splendor,  as  befits  a rich  merchant  who  is  also  an 
alderman. 

Now,  in  the  year  1665,  as  is  very  well  known,  the  plague 
broke  out  in  the  city.  There  were  living  in  the  house  the 
alderman,  his  wife,  his  son,  his  son’s  wife,  a daughter,  and  his 
grandson,  little  Humphrey.  On  the  first  outbreak  of  the 
pestilence  they  took  counsel  together  and  resolved  that  the 
child  should  be  first  sent  away  to  be  out  of  danger,  and  that 
they  would  follow  if  the  plague  spread. 

This  was  done,  and  a sober  man,  one  of  their  porters  or 
warehousemen,  carried  the  child  with  his  nurse  all  the  way 
from  London  to  Bradford  Orcas.  Alas!  before  the  boy  reached 
his  great-uncle,  the  house  in  Thames  Street  was  attacked  by 
the  plague,  and  every  one  therein  perished.  Thus  was  poor 
little  Humphrey  deprived  of  his  parents.  I know  not  who 
were  his  guardians  or  trustees,  or  what  steps,  if  any,  were 
taken  to  inquire  into  the  alderman’s  estate;  but  when,  next 
year,  the  great  fire  of  London  destroyed  the  house  in  Thames 
Street,  with  so  many  others,  all  the  estate,  whatever  it  had 
been,  vanished,  and  could  no  more  be  traced.  There  must 
have  been  large  moneys  owing.  It  is  certain  that  he  had 
shares  in  ships.  It  has  been  supposed  that  he  owned  many 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


25 


houses  in  the  city,  but  they  were  destroyed  and  their  very  site 
forgotten,  and  no  deeds  or  papers,  or  any  proof  of  ownership, 
were  left.  Moreover,  there  was  nobody  charged  with  inquiring 
into  this  orphans  affairs.  Therefore,  in  the  general  confusion, 
nothing  at  all  was  saved  out  of  what  had  been  a goodly  prop- 
erty, and  the  child  Humphrey  was  left  without  a guinea  in  the 
world.  Thus  unstable  is  fortune. 

I know  not  whether  Humphrey  received  a fall  in  his  infancy, 
or  whether  he  was  born  with  his  deformity,  but  the  poor  lad 
grew  up  with  a crooked  figure,  one  shoulder  being  higher  than 
the  other,  and  his  legs  short,  so  that  he  looked  as  if  his  arms 
were  too  long  for  him.  We,  who  saw  him  thus  every  day, 
paid  no  heed,  nor  did  he  suffer  from  any  of  those  cruel  gibes 
and  taunts  which  are  often  passed  upon  lads  thus  afflicted.  As 
he  was  by  nature  or  misfortune  debarred  from  the  rough 
sports  which  pleased  his  cousins,  the  boy  gave  himself  up  to 
reading  and  study,  and  to  music.  His  manner  of  speech  was 
soft  and  gentle;  his  voice  was  always  sweet,  and  afterward  be- 
came strong  as  well,  so  that  I have  never  heard  a better  singer. 

His  face — ah,  my  brother  Humphrey,  what  a lovely  face 
was  thine!  All  goodness,  surely,  was  stamped  upon  that  face. 
Never,  never  did  an  unworthy  thought  defile  that  candid  soul, 
or  a bad  action  cast  a cloud  upon  that  brow!  Where  art  thou 
now,  oh,  Humphrey,  brother  and  fond  companion  — whither 
hast  thou  fled? 

As  for  Eobin,  Sir  Christopher's  grandson,  I think  he  was 
always  what  he  is  still,  namely,  a man  of  a joyous  heart  and  a 
cheerful  countenance#  As  a boy,  he  laughed  continually, 
would  sing  more  willingly  than  read,  would  play  rather  than 
work,  loved  to  course  and  shoot  and  ride  better  than  to  learn 
Latin  grammar,  and  would  readily  off-coat  and  fight  with  any 
who  invited  him.  Yet  not  a fool  or  a clown,  but  always  a 
gentleman  in  manners,  and  one  who  read  such  things  as  be- 
hooved a country  gentleman,  and  scrupulous  as  to  the  point  of 
honor.  Such  as  he  is  still,  such  as  he  was  always.  And  of  a 
comely  presence,  with  a rosy  cheek  and  bright  eyes,  and  the 
strength  of  a young  David,  as  well  as  his  ruddy  and  goodly 
countenance.  The  name  of  David,  I am  told,  means  ‘ 6 dar- 
ling." Therefore  ought  my  Eobin  to  have  been  named  David. 
There  were  two  other  boys — Barnaby,  my  brother,  who  was  six 
years  older  than  myself,  and  therefore  always  a great  boy;  and 
Benjamin,  the  son  of  the  Eev.  Mr.  Boscorel,  the  rector.  Barna- 
by grew  up  so  broad  and  strong  that  at  twelve  he  would  have 
passed  easily  for  seventeen;  his  square  shoulders,  deep  chest, 
and  big  limbs  made  him  like  a bull  for  strength.  Yet  he  was 


26 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


shorter  than  most,  and  looked  shorter  than  he  was  by  reason 
of  his  great  breadth.  He  was  always  exercising  his  strength; 
he  would  toss  the  hay  with  the  haymakers,  and  carry  the  corn 
for  the  reapers,  and  thresh  with  the  flail,  and  guide  the  plow. 
He  loved  to  climb  great  trees,  and  to  fell  them  with  an  ax. 
Everybody  in  the  village  admired  his  wonderful  strength. 
Unfortunately,  he  loved  not  books,  and  could  never  learn  any- 
thing, so  that  when,  by  dint  of  great  application  and  many 
repetitions,  he  had  learned  a little  piece  of  a Latin  verb,  he 
straightway  forgot  it  in  the  night,  and  so  next  day  there  was 
another  flogging.  But  that  he  heeded  little.  He  was  five 
years  older  than  Bobin,  and  taught  him  all  his  woodcraft — 
where  to  find  pheasants*  eggs,  how  to  catch  squirrels,  how  to 
trap  weasels  and  stoats,  how  to  hunt  the  otter,  how  to  make  a 
goldfinch  whistle  and  a raven  talk;  never  was  there  such  a 
master  of  that  wisdom  which  doth  not  advance  a man  in  the 
world. 

Now,  before  Barnaby  *s  birth,  his  mother,  after  the  manner 
of  Hannah,  gave  him  solemnly  unto  the  Lord  all  the  days  of 
his  life;  and  after  his  birth  her  husband,  after  the  manner  of 
Elkanah,  said:  “ Do  what  seemeth  thee  good;  only  the  Lord 
establish  his  word.**  He  was,  therefore,  to  become  a minister, 
like  his  father  before  him.  Alas!  poor  Barnaby  could  not  even 
learn  the  Latin  verbs,  and  his  heart,  it  was  found  as  he  grew 
older,  was  wholly  set  upon  the  things  of  this  world.  Where- 
fore, my  mother  prayed  for  him  daily  while  she  sat  at  her 
work,  that  his  heart  might  be  turned,  and  that  he  might  get 
understanding. 

As  for  the  fourth  of  the  boys,  Benjamin  Boscorel,  he  was 
about  two  years  younger  than  Barnaby,  a boy  who,  for  want 
of  a mother,  and  because  his  father  was  careless  of  him,  grew 
up  rough  and  coarse  in  manners  and  in  speech,  and  boastful  of 
his  powers.  To  hear  Ben  talk  you  would  think  that  all  the 
boys  of  his  school  (the  grammar-school  of  Sherborne)  were 
heroes;  that  the  Latin  taught  was  of  a quality  superior  to  that 
which  Robin  and  Humphrey  learned  of  my  father,  and  that 
when  he  himself  went  out  into  the  world  the  superiority  of  his 
parts  would  be  immediately  perceived  and  acknowledged. 

Those  who  watch  boys  at  play  together — girls  more  early 
learn  to  govern  themselves  and  to  conceal  their  thoughts,  if 
not  their  tempers — may,  after  a manner,  predict  the  future 
character  of  every  one.  There  is  the  man  who  wants  all  for 
himself,  and  still  wants  more,  and  will  take  all  and  yield  noth- 
ing, save  on  compulsion,  and  cares  not  a straw  about  his  neigh- 
bor— such  was  Benjamin  as  a boy.  There  is  the  man  who  gives 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


27 


all  generously- — such  was  Eobin.  There  is,  again,  the  man 
whose  mind  is  raised  above  the  petty  cares  of  the  multitude, 
and  dwells  apart,  occupied  with  great  thoughts  — such  was 
Humphrey.  Lastly,  there  is  the  man  who  can  act  but  can  not 
think;  who  is  born  to  be  led;  who  is  full  of  courage  and  of 
strength,  and  leaves  all  to  his  commander,  captain,  or  master 
— such  was  Barnaby. 

As  I think  of  these  lads  it  seems  as  if  the  kind  of  man  into 
which  each  would  grow  must  have  been  stamped  upon  their 
foreheads.  Perhaps  to  the  elders  this  prognostic  was  easy  to 
read. 

They  suffered  me  to  play  with  them  or  to  watch  them  at 
play.  When  the  boys  went  off  to  the  woods  I went  with  them. 
I watched  them  set  their  traps — I ran  when  they  ran.  And 
then,  as  now,  I loved  Eobin  and  Humphrey.  But  I could  not 
endure — no,  not  even  the  touch  of  him — Benjamin,  with  the 
loud  laugh  and  the  braggart  voice,  who  laughed  at  me  because 
I was  a girl  and  could  not  fight.  The  time  came  when  he  did 
not  laugh  at  me  because  I was  a girl.  And*  oh,  to  think — 
only  to  think — of  the  time  that  came  after  that! 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

SIR  CHRISTOPHER. 

At  the  mere  remembrance  of  Sir  Christopher  I am  fain  to 
lay  down  my  pen  and  to  weep,  as  for  one  whose  goodness  was 
unsurpassed,  and  whose  end  was  undeserved.  Good  works,  I 
know,  are  rags,  and  men  can  not  deserve  the  mercy  of  God  by 
any  merits  of  their  own;  but  a good  man — a man  whose  heart 
is  full  of  justice,  mercy,  virtue,  and  truth — is  so  rare  a creat- 
ure that  when  there  is  found  such  a one  his  salvation  seems 
assured.  Is  it  not  wonderful  that  there  are  among  us  so  many 
good  Christians,  but  so  few  good  men?  I am,  indeed,  in  pri- 
vate duty  bound  to  acknowledged  Sir  Christopher's  goodness 
to  me  and  to  mine.  He  was,  as  I have  said,  the  mainstay  of 
our  household.  Had  we  depended  wholly  on  my  mother's 
work,  we  should  sometimes  have  fared  miserably  indeed.  Nay, 
he  did  more.  Though  a justice  of  the  peace,  he  invited  my 
father  every  Sunday  evening  to  the  Manse-house  for  spiritual 
conversation,  not  only  for  his  own  profit,  but  knowing  that  to 
expound  was  to  my  father  the  breath  of  his  nostrils,  so  that  if 
he  could  not  expound  he  must  die.  In  person  Sir  Christo- 
pher was  tall;  after  the  fashion  (which  I love)  of  the  days 
when  he  was  a young  man  he  wore  his  own  hair,  which,  being 


28 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


now  white  and  long,  became  his  venerable  face  much  better 
than  any  wig — white,  black,  or  brown.  He  was  generally 
dressed,  as  became  his  station  of  simple  country  gentleman,  in 
a plush  coat  with  silver  buttons,  and  for  the  most  part  he  wore 
boots,  being  of  an  active  habit,  and  always  walking  about  his 
fields  or  in  his  gardens  among  his  flowers  and  his  fruit-trees. 
He  was  so  good  a sportsman  that  with  his  rod,  his  gun,  and 
his  hawk  he  provided  his  table  with  everything  except  beef, 
mutton,  and  pork.  In  religion  he  inclined  to  independency, 
being,  above  all  things,  an  upholder  of  private  judgment;  in 
j)olitics  he  denied  the  Divine  right,  and  openly  said  that  a 
Challis  might  be  a king  as  well  as  a Stuart;  he  abhorred  the 
pope  and  all  his  works;  and  though  he  was  now  for  a mon- 
archy, he  would  have  the  king’s  own  power  limited  by  the  Par- 
liament. In  his  manners  he  was  grave  and  dignified,  not  aus- 
tere, but  one  who  loved  a cheerful  companion.  He  rode  once 
a week,  on  market-day,  to  Sherborne,  where  he  dined  with  his 
brother  justices,  hearing  and  discussing  the  news,  though  news 
comes  but  slowly  from  London  to  these  parts — it  was  fourteen 
days  after  the  landing  of  the  king  in  the  year  1660  that  the 
bells  of  Sherborne  Minster  rang  for  that  event.  Sometimes  a 
copy  of  the  London  “ Gazette  ” came  down  by  the  Exeter 
coach,  or  some  of  the  company  had  lately  passed  a night  where 
the  coach  stopped,  and  conversed  with  travelers  from  London 
and  heard  the  news.  For  the  rest  of  the  week  his  honor  was 
at  home.  For  the  most  part  he  sat  in  the  hall.  In  the  mid- 
dle stands  the  great  oak  table  where  all  the  household  sit  at 
meals  together.  There  was  little  difference  between  the  dishes 
served  above  and  those  below  the  salt,  save  that  those  above 
had  each  a glass  of  strong  ale  or  of  wine  after  dinner  and  sup- 
per. One  side  of  the  hall  was  hung  with  arras  worked  with 
representations  of  herbs,  beasts,  and  birds.  On  the  other  side 
was  the  great  chimney,  where  in  the  winter  a noble  fire  was 
kept  up  all  day  long.  On  either  side  of  it  hung  fox-skins, 
otter-skins,  polecat-skins,  with  fishing-rods,  stags’  heads,  horns, 
and  other  trophies  of  the  chase.  At  the  end  was  a screen 
covered  with  old  coats  of  mail,  helmets,  bucklers,  lances,  pikes, 
pistols,  guns  with  matchlocks,  and  a trophy  of  swords  arranged 
in  form  of  a star.  Below  the  cornice  hung  a row  of  leathern 
jerkins,  black  and  dusty,  which  had  formerly  been  worn  in 
place  of  armor  by  the  common  sort.  In  the  oriel  window  was 
a sloping  desk,  having  on  one  side  the  Bible,  and  on  the  other 
Fox’s  ‘ 4 Book  of  Martyrs.”  Below  was  a shelf  with  other 
books,  such  as  Vincent  Wing’s  “ Almanack,”  King  Charles’s 
“ Golden  Rules,”  “ Glanville  on  Apparitions,”  the  “ Complete 


FOR  FAITH  A HD  FREEDOM. 


29 


Justice/*  and  the  “ Book  of  Farriery.**  There  was  also  in  the 
hall  a great  sideboard  covered  with  Turkey  work,  pewter, 
brass,  and  fine  linen.  In  the  cupboard  below  was  his  honor*s 
plate,  reported  to  be  worth  a great  deal  of  money. 

Sir  Christopher  sat  in  a high  chair,  curiously  carved,  with 
arms  and  a triangular  seat.  It  had  belonged  to  the  family  for 
many  generations.  Within  reach  of  the  chair  was  the  tobacco- 
jar,  his  pipe,  and  his  favorite  book — namely,  “ The  Gentle- 
man *s  Academie;  or,  the  Book  of  St.  Albans,  being  a Work 
on  Hunting,  Hawking,  and  Armorie,**  by  Dame  Juliana  Ber- 
ners, who  wrote  it  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  a^b.  Sir  Chris- 
topher loved  especially  to  read  aloud  a chapter  in  which  it  was 
proved  that  the  distinction  between  gentleman  and  churl  began 
soon  after  the  creation,  when  Cain  proved  himself  a churl,  and 
Seth  was  created  gentleman  and  esquire  or  armiger  by  Adam, 
his  father.  This  distinction  was  renewed  after  the  flood  by 
Noah  himself,  a gentleman  by  lineal  descent  from  Seth.  In 
the  case  of  his  sons.  Ham  was  the  churl,  and  the  other  two 
were  the  gentlemen.  I have  sometimes  thought  that,  accord- 
ing to  this  author,  all  of  us  who  are  descended  from  Shem  or 
Japhet  should  be  gentlemen,  in  which  case  there  would  be  no 
churl  in  Great  Britain  at  all.  But  certainly  there  are  many; 
so  that,  to  my  poor  thinking,  Dame  Juliana  Berners  must  be 
wrong. 

There  is,  in  addition  to  the  great  hall,  the  best  parlor;  but 
as  this  was  never  wanted,  the  door  of  it  was  never  opened  ex- 
cept at  cleaning  time.  Then,  to  be  sure,  one  saw  a room  fur- 
nished very  grand,  with  chairs  in  Turkey  work,  and  hung 
round  with  family  portraits.  The  men  were  clad  in  armor,  as 
if  they  had  all  been  soldiers  or  commanders;  the  women  were 
mostly  dressed  as  shepherdesses,  with  crooks  in  their  hands 
and  flowing  robes.  In  the  garden  was  a long  bowling-green, 
where  in  summer  Sir  Christopher  took  great  pleasure  in  that 
ancient  game;  below  the  garden  was  a broad  fish-pond,  made 
by  damming  the  stream;  above  and  below  the  pond  there  are 
trout,  and  in  the  pond  are  carp  and  jack.  A part  of  the  gar- 
den was  laid  out  for  flowers,  a part  for  the  still-room,  and  a 
part  for  fruit.  I have  never  seen  anywhere  a better  ordered 
garden  for  the  still-room.  Everything  grew  therein  that  the 
housewife  wants — sweet  cicely,  rosemary,  burnet,  sweet  basil, 
chives,  dill,  clary,  angelica,  lipwort,  tarragon,  thyme,  and  mint; 
there  were,  as  Lord  Bacon,  in  his  “ Essay  on  Gardens/*  would 
have,  “ whole  alleys  of  them  to  have  the  pleasure  when  you 
walk  or  tread.**  There  were  thick  hedges  to  keep  off  the  east 
wind  in  spring,  so  that  one  would  enjoy  the  sun  when  that 


30 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM, 


cold  wind  was  blowing.  But  in  Somerset  that  wind  hath  not 
the  bitterness  that  it  possesses  along  the  eastern  shores  of  the 
land. 

Every  morning  Sir  Christopher  sat  in  his  justice's  chair 
under  the  helmets  and  the  coats  of  armor.  Sometimes  gypsies 
would  be  brought  before  him  charged  with  stealing  poultry  or 
poisoning  pigs,  or  a rogue  and  vagabond  would  stray  into  the 
parish;  these  gentry  were  very  speedily  whipped  out  of  it.  As 
for  our  own  people,  there  is  nowhere  a more  quiet  and  orderly 
village;  quarrels  there  are  with  the  clothiers'  men,  who  will 
still  try  to  beat  down  the  value  of  the  women's  work,  and 
bickerings  sometimes  between  the  women  themselves.  Sir 
Christopher  was  judge  for  all.  Truly  he  was  a patriarch  like 
unto  Abraham,  and  a father  to  his  people.  Never  was  sick 
man  suffered  to  want  for  medicines  and  succor;  never  was  aged 
man  suffered  to  lack  food  and  fire;  did  any  youth  show  lean- 
ings toward  sloth,  profligacy,  or  drunkenness,  he  was  straight- 
way admonished,  and  that  right  soundly,  so  that  his  back  and 
shoulders  would  remind  him  for  many  days  of  his  sin.  By 
evil-doers  Sir  Christopher  was  feared  as  much  as  he  was  be- 
loved by  all  good  men  and  true.  This  also  is  proper  to  one  in 
high  station  and  authority. 

In  the  evening  he  amused  himself  in  playing  backgammon 
with  the  boys,  or  chess  with  his  son-in-law,  Mr.  Boscorel;  but 
the  latter  with  less  pleasure,  because  he  was  generally  defeated 
in  the  game.  He  greatly  delighted  in  the  conversation  and 
society  of  that  learned  and  ingenious  gentleman,  though  on 
matters  of  religion  and  of  politics  his  son-in-law  belonged  to 
the  opposite  way  of  thinking. 

I do  not  know  why  Mr.  Boscorel  took  upon  himself  Holy 
Orders.  God  forbid  that  I should  speak  ill  of  any  in  authority, 
and  especially  of  one  who  was  kind  and  charitable  to  all,  and 
refused  to  become  a persecutor  of  those  who  desired  freedom 
of  conscience  and  of  speech.  But  if  the  chief  duty  of  a minis- 
ter of  the  Gospel  is  to  preach,  then  was  Mr.  Boscorel  little  bet- 
ter than  a dog  who  can  not  bark.  He  did  not  preach;  that  is 
to  say,  he  could  not,  like  my  father,  mount  the  pulpit,  Bible 
in  hand,  and  teach,  admonish,  argue,  and  convince  without  a 
written  word.  He  read  every  Sunday  morning  a brief  dis- 
course, which  might,  perhaps,  have  instructed  Oxford  scholars, 
but  would  not  be  understood  by  the  common  people.  As  for 
arguments  on  religion,  spiritual  conversation,  or  personal  ex- 
perience of  grace,  he  would  never  suffer  such  talk  in  his  pres- 
ence, because  it  argued  private  judgment  and  caused,  he  said, 


POE  PAITH  AND  PEEEDOM. 


31 


the  growth  of  spiritual  pride.  And  of  those  hot  Gospellers, 
whose  zeal  brings  them  to  prison  and  the  pillory,  he  spoke  with 
contempt.  His  conversation,  I must  acknowledge,  was  full  of 
delight  and  instruction,  if  the  things  which  one  learned  of  him 
were  not  vanities.  He  had  traveled  in  Italy  and  in  France, 
and  he  loved  to  talk  of  poetry,  architecture,  statuary,  medals 
and  coins,  antiquities,  and  so  forth — things  harmless  and,  per- 
haps, laudable  in  themselves,  but  for  a preacher  of  the  Gospel, 
who  ought  to  think  of  nothing  but  his  sacred  calling,  they  are 
surely  superfluities.  Or  he  would  talk  of  the  manners  and 
customs  of  strange  countries,  and  especially  of  the  Pope.  This 
person,  whom  I have  been  taught  to  look  upon  as,  from  t»he 
very  nature  of  his  pretensions,  the  most  wicked  of  living  men, 
Mr.  Boscorel  regarded  with  as  much  toleration  as  he  bestowed 
upon  an  Independent.  Thus  he  would  tell  us  of  London  and 
the  manners  of  the  great;  cf  the  king,  whom  he  had  seen,  and 
the  court,  seeming  to  wink  at  things  which  one  ought  to  hold 
in  abhorrence.  He  even  told  us  of  the  play-house,  which  ac- 
cording to  my  father,  is  the  most  subtle  engine  ever  invented 
by  the  devil  for  the  destruction  of  souls.  Yet  Mr.  Boscorel 
sighed  to  think  that  he  could  no  longer  visit  that  place  of 
amusement.  He  loved  also  music,  and  played  movingly  upon 
the  violoncello;  and  he  could  make  pictures  with  pen,  pencil, 
or  brush.  I have  some  of  his  paintings  still,  especially  a pict- 
ure which  he  drew  of  Humphrey  playing  the  fiddle,  his  great 
eyes  looking  upward,  as  if  the  music  was  drawing  his  soul  to 
heaven.  I know  not  why  he  painted  a halo  about  his  face. 
Mr.  Boscorel  also  loved  poetry,  and  quoted  Shakespeare  and 
Ben  Jonson  more  readily  than  the  Word  of  God. 

In  person  he  was  of  a goodly  countenance,  having  clear-cut 
features,  a straight  nose,  rather  long,  soft  eyes,  and  a gentle 
voice.  He  was  dainty  in  his  apparel,  loving  fine  clean  linen 
and  laced  neckerchiefs,  but  was  not  a gross  feeder;  he  drank 
but  little  wine,  but  would  discourse  upon  fine  wines,  such  as 
the  Tokay  of  Hungary,  Commandery  wine  from  Cyprus,  and 
the  like,  and  he  seemed  better  pleased  to  watch  the  color  of 
the  wine  in  the  glass,  and  to  breathe  its  perfume,  than  to  drink 
ifc.  Above  all  things,  he  hated  coarse  speech  and  rude  man- 
ners. He  spoke  of  men  as  if  he  stood  on  an  eminence  watch- 
ing them,  and  always  with  pity,  as  if  he  belonged  to  a nobler 
creation.  How  could  such  a man  have  such  a son? 


32 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

THE  RUNAWAY. 

Everybody  hath  heard,  and  old  people  still  remember, 
how  one  act  after  the  other  was  passed  for  the  suppression  of 
the  Non-conformists,  whom  the  Church  of  England  tried  to 
extirpate,  but  could  not.  Had  these  laws  been  truly  carried 
into  effect,  there  would  have  been  great  suffering  among  the 
Dissenters,  but  in  order  to  enforce  them  every  man's  hand 
would  have  been  turned  against  his  neighbor,  and  this — thank 
God — is  not  possible  in  Somerset. 

For  example,  the  Act  of  Uniformity  provided  not  only  for 
the  ejectment  of  the  Non-conforming  ministers,  which  was  duly 
carried  out,  but  also  enacted  that  none  of  them  should  take 
scholars  without  the  license  of  the  bishop.  Yet  many  of  the 
ejected  ministers  maintained  themselves  in  this  way,  openly, 
without  the  bishop's  license.  They  were  not  molested,  though 
they  might  be  threatened  by  some  hot  Episcopalian,  nor  were 
the  bishops  anxious  to  set  the  country  afire  by  attempting  to 
enforce  this  law.  One  must  not  take  from  an  honest  neigh- 
bor, whatever  an  unjust  law  may  command,  his  only  way  of 
living.  o 

Again  the  act  passed  two  years  later  punished  all  persons 
with  fine  and  imprisonment  who  attended  conventicles.  Yet 
the  conventicles  continued  to  be  held  over  the  whole  country, 
because  it  was  impossible  for  the  justices  to  fine  and  imprison 
men  with  whom  they  sat  at  dinner  every  market-day,  with 
whom  they  took  their  punch  and  tobacco,  and  whom  they 
knew  to  be  honest  and  God-fearing  folk.  Again,  how  could 
they  fine  and  imprison  their  own  flesh  and  blood?  Why,  in 
every  family  there  were  some  who  loved  the  meeting-house 
better  than  the  steeple-house.  Laws  have  little  power  when 
they  are  against  the  conscience  of  the  people. 

Thirdly,  there  was  an  act  prohibiting  ministers  from  re- 
siding within  five  miles  of  the  village  or  town  where  they  had 
preached.  This  was  a most  cruel  and  barbarous  act,  because 
it  sent  the  poor  ministers  away  from  the  help  of  their  friends. 
Yet  how  was  it  regarded?  My  father,  for  his  part,  continued 
to  live  at  Bradford  Orcas  without  let  or  hinderance,  and  so,  no 
doubt,  did  many  more. 

Again,  another  act  was  passed  giving  authority  to  justices 
of  the  peace  to  break  open  doors  and  to  take  in  custody  per- 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


sons  found  assembling  for  worship.  I have  heard  of  disturb- 
ances at  Taunton,  where  the  magistrates  carried  things  with  a 
high  hand,  but  I think  the  people  who  met  to  worship  after 
their  own  fashion  were  little  disturbed.  Among  the  church- 
men were  some,  no  doubt,  who  remembered  the  snubs  and 
rubs  they  had  themselves  experienced,  and  the  memory  may 
have  made  them  revengeful.  All  the  prosecution,  it  is  certain, 
was  not  on  the  side  of  the  Church.  There  was,  for  instance, 
the  case  of  Dr.  Walter  Raleigh,  Dean  of  Wells,  who  was  clapped 
into  a noisome  prison  where  the  plague  had  broken  out.  He 
did  not  die  of  that  disease,  but  was  done  to  death  in  the  jail, 
barbarously,  by  one  David  Barret,  shoe-maker,  who  was  never 
punished  for  the  murder,  but  was  afterward  made  constable  of 
the  city.  There  was  also  the  case  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Piers,  whom 
I have  myself  seen,  for  he  lived  to  a good  old  age.  He  was  a 
Prebendary  of  Wells,  and,  being  driven  forth,  was  compelled 
to  turn  farmer,  and  to  work  with  his  own  hands — digging, 
hoeing,  plowing,  reaping,  and  threshing — when  he  should 
have  been  in  his  study.  Every  week  this  reverend  and  learned 
doctor  of  divinity  was  to  be  seen  at  Ilminster  Market,  stand- 
ing beside  the  pillars  with  his  cart,  among  the  farmers  and 
their  wives,  selling  his  apples,  cheese  and  cabbages. 

I say  that  no  doubt  many  remembered  these  things.  Yet 
the  affection  of  the  people  went  forth  to  the  Non-conformists 
and  the  ejected  ministers,  as  was  afterward  but  too  well 
proved.  I have  been  speaking  of  things  which  happened  be- 
fore my  recollection.  It  was  in  the  year  1665,  four  years  after 
the  Ejection,  that  I was  born.  My  father  named  me  Grace 
Abounding,  but  I have  never  been  called  by  any  other  name 
than  my  first.  I was  thus  six  years  younger  than  my  brother 
Barnaby,  and  two  years  younger  than  Robin  and  Humphrey. 

The  first  thing  that  I can  recollect  is  a kind  of  picture,  pre- 
served, so  to  speak,  in  my  head.  At  the  open  door  is  a woman 
spinning  at  the  wheel.  She  is  a woman  with  a pale,  grave 
face;  she  works  diligently^  and  for  the  most  part  in  silence; 
if  she  speaks  it  is  to  encourage  or  to  admonish  a little  girl  who 
plays  in  the  garden  outside.  Her  lips  move  as  she  works,  be- 
cause she  communes  with  her  thoughts  all  day  long.  From 
time  to  time  she  turns  her  head  and  looks  with  anxiety  into 
the  other  room,  where  sits  her  husband  at  his  table. 

Before  him  stand  three  boys.  They  are  Barnaby,  Robin, 
and  Humphrey.  They  are  learning  Latin.  The  room  is  piled 
with  books  on  shelves  and  books  on  the  floor.  In  the  corner 
is  a pallet,  which  is  the  master’s  bed  by  night.  I hear  the 
voices  of  the  boys  who  repeat  their  lessons,  and  the  admonish- 


34 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


ing  of  their  master.  I can  see  through  the  open  door  the  boys 
themselves.  One,  a stout  and  broad  lad,  is  my  brother  Bar- 
naby;  he  hangs  his  head  and  forgets  his  lesson,  and  causes  his 
father  to  punish  him  every  day.  He  receives  admonition  with 
patience,  yet  profiteth  nothing.  The  next  is  Humphrey;  he 
is  already  a lad  of  grave  and  modest  carriage,  who  loves  his 
book  and  learns  diligently.  The  third  is  Robin,  whose  parts 
are  good,  were  his  application  equal  to  his  intelligence.  He  is 
impatient,  and  longs  for  the  time  when  he  may  close  his  book 
and  go  to  play  again. 

Poor  Barnaby!  at  the  sight  of  a Latin  grammar  he  would 
feel  sick.  He  would  willingly  have  taken  a flogging  every  day 
— to  be  sure,  that  generally  happened  to  him — in  order  to  es- 
cape his  lessons  and  be  off  to  the  fields  and  woods. 

It  was  the  sight  of  his  rueful  face — yet  never  sad  except  at 
lessons — which  made  my  mother  sigh  when  she  saw  him  dull 
but  patient  over  his  book.  Had  he  stayed  at  home  I know  not 
what  could  have  been  done  with  him,  seeing  that  to  become  a 
preacher  of  the  Gospel  was  beyond  evefn  the  power  of  prayer, 
the  Lord  having  clearly  expressed  His  will  in  this  matter.  He 
would  have  had  to  clap  on  a leathern  apron,  and  become  a 
wheelwright  or  blacksmith,  nothing  better  than  an  honest  trade 
was  possible  for  him. 

But  whether  happily  or  not,  a strange  whim  seized  the  boy 
when  he  was  fourteen  years  of  age.  He  would  go  to  sea. 
How  he  came  to  think  of  the  sea  I know  not;  he  had  never 
seen  the  sea;  there  were  no  sailors  in  the  village;  there  was 
no  talk  of  the  sea.  Perhaps  Humphrey,  who  read  many 
books,  told  him  of  the  great  doings  of  our  sailors  on  the 
Spanish  Main  and  elsewhere.  Perhaps  some  of  the  clothiers* 
men,  who  are  a roving  and  unsettled  crew,  had  been  sailors — 
some,  I know,  had  been  soldiers  under  Oliver.  However,  this 
matters  not — Barnaby  must  needs  become  a sailor. 

When  first  he  broke  this  resolution,  which  he  did  secretly, 
to  my  mother,  she  began  to  weep  and  lament,  because  every- 
body knows  how  dreadful  is  the  life  of  a sailor,  and  how  full 
of  dangers.  She  begged  him  to  put  the  thought  out  of  his 
head,  and  to  apply  himself  again  to  his  boks. 

“ Mother,**  he  said,  “ it  is  no  use.  What  comes  in  at  one 
ear  goes  out  at  the  other.  Nothing  sticks;  I shall  never  be  a 
scholar.** 

“ Then,  my  son,  learn  an  honest  trade.** 

“ What?  Become  the  village  cobbler — or  the  blacksmith? 
Go  hat  in  hand  to  his  honor,  when  my  father  should  have  been 
a bishop,  and  my  mother  is  a gentlewoman?  That  will  I not. 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


35 


I will  go  and  be  a sailor.  All  sailors  are  gentlemen.  I shall 
rise  and  become  first  mate,  and  then  second  captain,  and  lastly 
captain  in  command.  Who  knows?  I may  go  and  fight  the 
Spaniard,  if  I am  lucky. ” 

“ Oh,  my  son,  canst  thou  not  stay  at  home  and  go  to 
church,  and  consider  the  condition  of  thine  immortal  soul? 
Of  sailors  it  is  well  known  that  their  language  is  ‘made  up  of 
profane  oaths,  and  that  they  are  all  profligates  and  drunkards. 
Consider,  my  son  ” — my  mother  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm — 
“ what  were  Heaven  to  me  if  I have  not  my  dear  children  with 
me  as  well  as  my  husband?  How  could  I praise  the  Lord  if  I 
were  thinking  of  my  son  who  was  not  with  me,  but — ah! 
Heaven  forbid  the  thought!” 

Barnaby  made  no  reply.  What  could  he  say  in  answer  to 
my  mother’s  tears?  Yet  I think  she  must  have  understood 
very  well  that  her  son,  having  got  this  resolution  into  his  head, 
would  never  give  it  up. 

“Oh!”  she  said,  “when  thou  wast  a little  baby  in  my 
arms,  Barnaby,  who  art  now  so  big  and  strong  99 — she  looked 
at  him  with  the  wonder  and  admiration  that  women  feel  when 
their  sons  grow  big  and  stout — “I  prayed  that  God  would 
accept  thee  as  an  offering  for  His  service.  Thou  art  vowed 
unto  the  Lord,  my  son,  as  much  as  Samuel.  Do  you  think 
he  complained  of  his  lessons?  What  would  have  happened, 
think  you,  to  Samuel  if  he  had  taken  off  his  ephod,  and  de- 
clared that  he  would  serve  no  longer  at  the  altar,  but  must 
take  spear  and  shield,  and  go  to  fight  the  Amalekite?” 

Said  Barnaby  in  reply,  speaking  from  an  unregenerate 
heart:  “Mother,  had  I been  Samuel,  to  wear  an  ephod  and 
to  learn  the  Latin  syntax  every  day,  I should  have  done  that. 
Ay,  I would  have  done  it,  even  if  I knew  that  at  the  first 
skirmish  an  arrow  would  pierce  my  heart. 

It  was  after  a great  flagging,  on  account  of  the  passive  voice 
or  some  wrestling  with  the  syntax,  that  Barnaby  plucked  up 
courage  to  tell  his  father  what  he  wished  to  do. 

“With  my  consent,”  said  my  father,  sternly,  “thou  shalt 
never  become  a sailor.  As  soon  would  I send  thee  to  become 
a buffoon  in  a play-house.  Never  dare  to  speak  of  it  again.” 

Barnaby  hung  his  head  and  said  nothing. 

Then  my  mother,  who  knew  his  obstinate  disposition,  took 
him  to  Sir  Christopher,  who  chid  him  roundly,  telling  him 
that  there  was  work  for  him  on  land,  else  he  would  have  been 
born  beside  the  coast,  where  the  lads  take  naturally  to  the 
sea;  that  being,  as  he  was,  only  an  ignorant  boy  and  land- 
born,  he  could  not  know  the  dangers  which  he  would  en- 


36  FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 

counter;  that  some  ships  are  cast  away  on  desert  islands, 
where  the  survivors  remain  in  misery  until  they  die,  and  some 
on  lands  where  savages  devour  them,  and  some  are  dragged 
down  by  calamaries  and  other  dreadful  monsters,  and  some 
are  burned  at  sea,  their  crews  having  to  choose  miserably  be- 
tween burning  and  drowning,  and  some  are  taken  by  the 
enemy,  and  the  sailors  clapped  into  dungeons  and  tortured  by 
the  accursed  Inquisition. 

Many  more  things  did  Sir  Christopher  set  forth,  showing 
the  miserable  life  and*  the  wretched  end  of  the  sailor.  But 
Barnaby  never  changed  countenance,  and  though  my  mother 
bade  him  note  this  and  mark  that  and  take  heed  unto  his 
honoris  words  his  face  showed  no  melting.  *Twas  always  an 
obstinate  lad;  nay,  it  was  his  obstinacy  alone  which  kept  him 
from  his  learning.  Otherwise  he  might  perhaps  have  become 
as  great  a scholar  as  Humphrey. 

4 6 Sir/*  he  said,  when  Sir  Christopher  had  no  other  word  to 
say,  “ with  submission  I would  still  choose  to  be  a sailor,  if  I 
could.  ’* 

In  the  end  he  obtained  his  wish.  That  is  to  say,  since  no 
one  would  help  him  toward  it,  he  helped  himself.  And  this, 
I think,  is  the  only  way  in  which  men  do  ever  get  what  they 
want. 

It  happened  one  evening  that  there  passed  through  the 
village  a man  with  a pipe  and  tabor,  on  which  he  played  so 
movingly  that  all  the  people  turned  out  to  listen.  For  my 
own  part,  I was  with  my  mother,  yet  I ran  to  the  garden  gate 
and  leaned  my  head  over,  drawn  by  the  sound  of  the  music. 
Presently  the  boys  and  girls  began  to  take  hands  and  to  dance. 
I dare  not  say  that  to  dance  is  sinful,  because  David  danced. 
But  it  was  so  regarded  by  my  father,  so  that  when  he  passed 
by  them  on  his  way  home  from  taking  the  air,  and  actually 
saw  his  own  son  Barnaby  in  the  middle  of  the  dancers,  footing 
it  with  them  all,  leading  one  girl  up  and  the  other  down  at 
John , come  and  hiss  me  now , he  was  seized  with  a mighty 
wrath,  and  catching  his  son  sharply  by  the  ear,  led  him  out  of 
the  throng,  and  so  home.  For  that  evening  Barnaby  went 
supperless  to  bed,  with  the  promise  of  such  a flogging  in  the 
morning  as  would  cause  him  to  remember  for  the  rest  of  his 
life  the  sinfulness  of  dancing.  Never  had  I seen  my  father  so 
angry.  I trembled  before  his  wrathful  eyes.  But  Barnaby 
faced  him  with  steady  looks,  making  answer  none,  yet  not 
showing  the  least  repentance  or  fear.  I thought  it  was  be- 
cause a flogging  had  no  terrors  for  him.  The  event  proved 
that  I was  wrong,  for  when  he  awoke  in  the  morning  he  was 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


37 


gone.  He  had  crept  down-stairs  in  the  night;  he  had  taken 
half  a loaf  of  bread  and  a great  cantle  of  soft  cheese,  and  had 
gone  away.  I knew  for  my  part  very  well  that  he  had  not 
gone  for  fear  of  the  rod;  he  had  run  away  with  design  to  go  to 
sea.  Perhaps  he  had  gone  to  Bristol;  perhaps  to  Plymouth; 
perhaps  to  Lyme.  My  mother  wept,  and  my  father  sighed, 
and  for  ten  years  more  we  neither  saw  nor  heard  anything  of 
Barnaby,  not  even  whether  he  was  dead  or  living. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

BENJAMIN,  LORD  CHANCELLOR. 

Summer  follows  winter,  and  winter  summer,  in  due  course, 
turning  children  into  young  men  and  maidens,  changing  school 
into  work,  and  play  into  love,  and  love  into  marriage,  and  so 
onward  to  the  church-yard,  where  we  all  presently  lie,  hopeful 
of  Heaven^s  mercy,  whether  Mr.  Boscorel  did  stand  beside  our 
open  grave  in  his  white  surplice,  or  my  father  in  his  black 
gown. 

Barnaby  was  gone;  the  other  three  grew  tall,  and  would 
still  be  talking  of  the  lives  before  them.  Girls  do  never  look 
forward  to  the  future  with  the  eagerness  and  joy  of  boys.  To 
the  dullest  boy  it  seems  a fine  thing  to  be  master  of  his  own 
actions,  even  if  that  liberty  lead  to  whipping-post,  pillory  or 
gallows.  To  boys  of  ambition  and  imagination  the  gifts  of 
Fortune  show  like  the  splendid  visions  of  a prophet.  They 
think  that  earthly  fame  will  satisfy  the  soul.  Perhaps  women 
see  these  glories  and  their  true  worth  with  clearer  eye  as  not 
desiring  them.  And  truly  it  seems  a small  thing,  after  a life 
spent  in  arduous  toil,  and  with  one  foot  already  in  the  grave, 
to  obtain  fortune,  rank  or  title. 

Benjamin  and  Humphrey  were  lads  of  ambition.  To  them, 
but  in  fields  which  lay  far  apart,  the  best  life  seemed  to  bfe 
that  which  is  spent  among  men  on  the  ant-hill  where  all  are 
driving  and  being  driven,  loading  each  other  with  burdens 
intolerable  or  with  wealth  or  with  honors,  and  then  dying  and 
being  forgotten  in  a moment — which  we  call  London.  In  the 
kindly  country  one  stands  apart  and  sees  the  vanity  of  human 
wishes.  Yet  the  ambition  of  Humphrey,  it  must  be  confessed, 
was  noble,  because  it  was  not  for  his  own  advancement,  but 
for  the  good  of*  mankind. 

“ I shall  stay  at  home,”  said  Robin.  “ You  two  may  go  if 
you  please.  Perhaps  you  will  like  the  noise  of  London  where 
a man  can  not  hear  himself  speak,  they  say,  for  the  roaring  of 


38 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


the  crowd,  the  ringing  of  the  bells,  and  the  rumbling  of  the 
carts.  As  for  me,  what  is  good  enough  for  my  grandfather 
will  be  surely  good  enough  for  me.  ” 

It  should,  indeed,  be  good  enough  for  anybody  to  spend  his 
days  after  the  manner  of  Sir  Christopher,  administering  justice 
for  the  villagers,  with  the  weekly  ordinary  at  Sherborne  for 
company,  the  green  fields  and  his  garden  for  pleasure  and  for 
exercise,  and  the  welfare  of  his  soul  for  prayer.  Robin,  be- 
sides, loved  to  go  forth  with  hawk  and  gun;  to  snare  the  wild 
creatures;  to  hunt  the  otter  and  the  fox;  to  bait  the  badger, 
and  trap  the  stoat  and  weasel;  to  course  the  hares.  But  cities 
and  crowds,  even  if  they  should  be  shouting  in  his  honor,  did 
never  draw  him,  even  after  he  had  seen  them.  Nor  was  he 
ever  tempted  to  believe  any  manner  of  life  more  full  of  delight 
and  more  consistent  with  the  end  of  many’s  creation  than  the 
rural  life,  the  air  of  the  fields,  the  following  of  the  plow  for 
the  men,  and  the  spinning-wheel  for  the  women. 

“ I shall  be  a lawyer,”  said  Benjamin,  puffing  out  his  cheeks 
and  squaring  his  shoulders.  “ Very  well,  then,  I shall  be  a 
great  lawyer.  What?  None  of  your  pettifogging  tribe  for 
me;  I shall  step  to  the  front,  and  stay  there.  What?  Some 
one  must  have  the  prizes  and  the  promotion.  There  are  al- 
ways places  falling  vacant  and  honors  to  be  given  away;  they 
shall  be  given  to  me.  Why  not  to  me  as  well  as  another?” 

“ Well,”  said  Robin,  “ you  are  strong  enough  to  take  them, 
willy-nilly.  ” 

“I  am  strong  enough,”  he  replied,  with  conviction. 
cc  First,  I shall  be  called  to  the  Outer  Bar,  where  I shall 
plead  in  stuff — I saw  them  at  Exeter  last  * Sizes.  Next,  I 
shall  be  summoned  to  become  king’s  counsel,  when  I shall 
flaunt  it  in  silk.  Who  but  I?”  Then  he  seemed  to  grow 
actually  three  inches  taller,  so  great  is  the  power  of  imagi- 
nation. He  was  already  six  feet  in  height,  his  shoulders 
broad,  and  his  face  red  and  fiery,  so  that  now  he  looked  very 
big  and  tall.  “ Then  my  Inn  will  make  me  a bencher,  and  I 
shall  sit  at  the  high  table  in  term-time.  And  the  attorneys 
shall  run  after  me  and  fight  with  each  other  for  my  services  in 
court,  so  that  in  every  great  case  I shall  be  heard  thundering 
before  the  jury,  and  making  the  witnesses  perjure  themselves 
with  terror — for  which  they  will  be  afterward  flogged.  I shall 
belong  to  the  king’s  party — none  of  your  canting  Whigs  for 
me.  When  the  high-treason  cases  come  on  I shall  be  the 
counsel  for  the  Crown.  That  is  the  high-road  to  advance- 
ment.” 


FOB  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM.  3& 

* 

u This  is  very  well  so  far/’  said  Robin,  laughing.  “ Ben  is 
too  modest,  however.  He  does  not  get  on  fast  enough.”  * 

“ All  in  good  time,”  Ben  replied.  “ I mean  to  get  on  as 
fast  as  anybody.  But  I shall  follow  the  beaten  road.  First, 
favor  with  attorneys  and  those  who  have  suits  in  the  courts, 
then  the  ear  of  the  judge.  I know  not  how  one  gets  the  ear 
of  the  judge  ” — he  looked  despondent  for  a moment,  then  he 
held  up  his  head  again — “ but  I shall  find  out.  Others  have 
found  out — why  not  I?  What?  I am  no  fool,  am  I?” 

“ Certainly  not,  Ben.  But  as  yet  we  stick  at  king's 
counsel.  ” 

“ After  the  ear  of  the  judge,  the  favor  of  the  Crown.  What 
do  I care  who  is  king?  It  is  the  king  who  hath  preferment 
and  place  and  honors  in  his  gift.  Where  these  are  given  away 
there  shall  I be  found.  Next  am  I made  sergeant-at-law. 
Then  I am  saluted  as  6 Brother  ' by  the  judges  on  the  bench, 
while  all  the  others  burst  with  envy.  After  that  I shall  my- 
self be  called  to  the  bench.  I am  already  c my  lord  ’ — why 
do  you  laugh,  Robin? — and  a knight;  Sir  Benjamin  Boscorel — 
Sir  Benjamin.”  Here  he  puffed  out  his  cheeks  again  and 
swung  his  shoulders  like  a very  great  person  indeed. 

“ Proceed,  Sir  Benjamin,”  said  Humphrey,  gravely,  while 
Robin  laughed. 

“ When  I am  a judge  I promise  you  I will  rate  the  barris- 
ters and  storm  at  the  witnesses  and  admonish  the  jury  until 
there  shall  be  no  other  question  in  their  minds  but  to  find  out 
first  what  is  my  will  in  the  case,  and  then  to  govern  them- 
selves accordingly.  I will  be  myself  judge  and  jury  and  all. 
Oh,  I have  seen  the  judge  at  last  Exeter  'Sizes.  He  made  all 
to  shake  in  their  shoes.  I shall  not  stop  there.  Chief  baron 
I shall  be,  perhaps,  but  on  that  point  I have  not  yet  made  up 
my  mind,  and  then  lord  chancellor.”  He  paused  to  take 
breath,  and  looked  around  him,  grandeur  and  authority  upon 
his  brow.  “ Lord  chancellor,”  he  repeated,  “ on  the  wool- 
sack.” 

“ You  will  then,”  said  Robin,  “ be  raised  to  the  peerage — 
first  Lord  Boscorel,  or  perhaps,  if  your  lordship  will  so  honor 
this  poor  village.  Lord  Bradford  Orcas.  ” 

“ Earl  of  Sherborne  I have  chosen  for  title,”  said  Benja- 
min. “ And  while  I am  climbing  up  the  ladder  where  wilt 
thou  be,  Humphrey?  Groveling  in  the  mud  with  the  poor 
devils  who  can  not  rise?” 

“ Nay,  I shall  have  a small  ladder  of  my  own,  Ben.  I find 
great  comfort  in  the  thought  that  when  your  lordship  is  roar- 
ing and  bawling  with  the  gout,  your  noble  toe  being  like  a ball 


40 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


of  fire  and  your  illustrious  foot  swathed  in  flannel,  I shall  be 
called  upon  to  drive  away  the  pain,  and  you  will  honor  me 
with  the  title,  not  only  of  humble  cousin,  but  also  of  rescuer 
and  preserver.  Will  it  not  be  honor  enough  to  cure  the  Eight 
Honorable  the  Earl  of  Sherborne,  first  of  the  name,  Ihe  lord 
chancellor,  of  his  gout,  and  to  restore  him  to  the  duties  of  his 
great  office,  so  that  once  more  he  shall  be  the  dread  of  evil- 
doers, and  of  all  who  have  to  appear  before  him?  As  yet,  my 
lord,  your  extremities,  I perceive,  are  free  from  that  disease, 
the  result,  too  often,  of  that  excess  in  wine  which  besets  the 
great. ** 

Here  Eobin  laughed  again,  and  so  did  Benjamin.  Nobody 
could  use  finer  language  than  Humphrey,  if  he  pleased. 

“ A fine  ambition/*  said  Ben.  “ To  wear  a black  velvet 
coat  and  a great  wig;  to  carry  a gold-headed  cane;  all  day 
long  to  listen  while  the  patient,  tells  of  his  gripes  and  pains; 
to  mix  boluses  and  to  compound  nauseous  draughts/* 

“ Well,**  Humphrey  laughed,  “ if  you  are  lord  chancellor, 
Ben,  you  will,  I hope,  give  us  good  laws,  and  so  make  the 
nation  happy  and  prosperous.  While  you  are  doing  this,  I 
will  be  keeping  you  in  health  for  the  good  of  the  country.  I 
say  that  this  is  a fine  ambition.  ** 

“ And  Eobin  here  will  sit  in  the  great  chair,  and  have  the 
rogues  haled  before  him,  and  order  the  head-borough  to  bring 
out  his  cat-o *-nine-tails.  In  the  winter  evenings  he  will  play 
backgammon,  and  in  the  summer  bowls.  Then  a posset,  and 
to  bed.  And  never  any  change  from  year  to  year.  A fine 
life,  truly.** 

“ Truly  I think  it  is  a very  fine  life/*  said  Eobin;  “ while 
you  make  the  laws  I will  take  care  that  they  are  obeyed.  What 
better  service  is  there  than  to  cause  good  laws  to  be  obeyed? 
Make  good  laws,  my  lord  chancellor,  and  be  thankful  that  you 
will  have  faithful,  law-abiding  men  to  carry  them  out.  ** 

Thus  they  talked.  Presently  the  time  came  when  the  lads 
must  leave  the  village,  and  go  forth  to  prepare  for  such  course 
as  should  be  allotted  to  them,  whether  it  led  to  greatness  or  to 
obscurity. 

Benjamin  went  first,  being  sixteen  years  of  age,  and  a great 
fellow,  as  I have  said — broad-shouldered  and  lusty,  with  a red 
face,  a strong  voice,  and  a loud  laugh.  In  no  respect  did  he 
resemble  his  father,  who  was  delicate  in  manner  and  in 
speech.  He  was  to  be  entered  at  Gray*s  Inn,  where,  under 
some  counsel  learned  in  the  law,  he  was  to  read  until  such 
time  as  he  should  be  called. 


FOR  FAITH  AIsTD  FREEDOM. 


41 


He  came  to  bid  me  farewell,  which  at  first,  until  he  fright- 
ened me  with  the  things  he  said,  I took  kindly  of  him. 

“ Child,”  he  said,  6 6 1 am  going  to  London,  and,  I suppose, 
I shall  not  come  back  to  this  village  for  a long  time.  Nay, 
were  it  not  for  thee,  I should  not  wish  to  come  back  at  all.” 

“ Why  for  me,  Ben?” 

“ Because  ** — here  his  red  face  became  redder,  and  he  stam- 
mered a little,  but  not  much,  for  he  was  ever  a lad  of  confi- 
dence— “ because,  child,  thou  art  not  yet  turned  twelve, 
which  is  young  to  be  hearing  of  such  a thing.  Yet  a body 
may  as  well  make  things  safe.  And  as  for  Humphrey  or 
Robin  interfering,  I will  break  their  heads  with  my  cudgel  if 
they  do.  Remember  that  then.  ” He  shook  his  finger  at  me, 
threatening. 

“ In  what  business  should  they  interfere?”  I asked. 

“Kiss  me,  Grace  ” — here  he  tried  to  lay  his  arm  round  my 
neck,  but  I ran  away.  “ Oh,  if  thou  art  skittish  I care  not; 
all  in  good  time.  Very  well,  then;  let  us  make  things  safe. 
Grace,  when  I come  back  thou  wilt  be  seventeen  or  eighteen, 
which  is  an  age  when  girls  should  marry — ” 

“ I will  have  nothing  to  do  with  marrying,  Ben.” 

“Not  yet.  If  I mistake  not,  child,  thou  wilt  then  be  as 
beautiful  as  a rose  in  June.” 

“ I want  no  foolish  talk,  Ben.  Let  me  go.” 

“ Then  I shall  be  twenty-one  years  of  age,  practicing  in  the 
courts.  I shall  go  the  Western  Circuit,  in  order  to  see  thee 
often — partly  to  keep  an  eye  upon  thee  and  partly  to  warn  off 
other  men.  Because,  child,  it  is  my  purpose  to  marry  thee 
myself.  Think  upon  that,  now.  ” 

At  this  I laughed. 

“ Laugh,  if  you  please,  my  dear;  I shall  marry  thee  as  soon 
as  the  way  is  open  to  the  bench  and  the  woolsack.  What?  I 
can  see  a long  way  ahead.  I tell  thee  what  I see.  There  is  a 
monstrous  great  crowd  of  people  in  the  street  staring  at  a glass 
coach.  ‘ Who  is  the  lovely  lady?*  they  ask.  ‘ The  lovely 
lady  * — that  is  you,  Grace;  none  other — ‘ with  the  diamonds 
at  her  neck  and  the  gold  chain,  in  the  glass  coach?*  says  one 
who  knows  her  liveries;  ‘ *tis  the  lady  of  the  great  lord  chan- 
cellor, the  Earl  of  Sherborne.*  And  the  women  fall  green 
with  envy  of  her  happiness  and  great  good-fortune  and  her 
splendor.  Courage,  child;  I go  to  prepare  the  way.  Oh, 
thou  knowest  not  the  grand  things  that  I shall  pour  into  thy 
lap  when  I am  a judge.** 

This  was  the  first  time  that  any  man  spoke  to  me  of  love. 
But  Benjamin  was  always  masterful,  and  had  no  respect  for 


42 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


such  a nice  point  as  the  wooing  of  a maiden— which,  methinks, 
should  be  gentle  and  respectful,  not  as  if  a woman  was  like  a 
savage  to  be  tempted  by  a string  of  beads,  or  so  foolish  as  to 
desire  with  her  husband  such  gawds  as  diamonds,  or  gold 
chains,  or  a glass  coach.  Nor  doth  a woman  like  to  be  treated 
as  if  she  was  to  be  carried  off  by  force  like  the  Sabine  women 
of  old. 

The  rector  rode  to  London  with  his  son.  It  is  a long  jour- 
ney, over  rough  ways,  but  it  pleased  him.  once  more  to  see 
that  great  city  where  there  are  pictures  and  statues  and  hooks 
to  gladden  the  hearts  of  such  as  love  these  things.  And  on 
the  way  home  he  sojourned  for  a few  days  at  his  old  college  of 
All-Souls,  where  were  still  left  one  or  two  of  his  old  friends. 
Then  he  rode  back  to  his  village.  “ There  are  but  two  places 
in  this  country,”  he  said,  “ or  perhaps  three,  at  most,  where 
a gentleman  and  a scholar,  or  one  who  loveth  the  fine  arts, 
would  choose  to  live.  They  are  London  and  Oxford,  and  per- 
haps the  sister  university  upon  the  Granta.  Well,  I have  once 
more  been  privileged  to  witness  the  humors  of  the  court  and 
the  town;  I have  once  more  been  permitted  to  sniff  the  air  of 
a great  library.  Let  us  be  thankful.”  He  showed  his  thank- 
fulness with  a sigh  which  was  almost  a groan. 

It  was  three  years  before  we  saw  Benjamin  again.  Then  he 
returned,  but  not  for  long.  Like  his  father,  he  loved  London 
better  than  the  country,  but  for  other  reasons.  Certainly  he 
cared  nothing  for  those  arts  which  so  much  delighted  the 
rector,  and  the  air  of  a coffee-house  pleased  him  more  than 
the  perfume  of  books  in  a library.  When  he  left  us  he  was  a 
rustic,  when  he  came  back  he  was  already  what  they  call  a 
fopling;  that  is  to  say,  when  he  went  to  pay  his  respects  to 
Sir  Christopher,  his  grandfather,  he  wore  a very  fine  cravat  of 
Flanders  lace,  with  silken  hose,  and  lace  and  ribbons  at  his 
wrist.  He  was  also  scented  with  bergamot,  and  wore  a peruke, 
which,  while  he  talked,  he  combed  and  curled,  to  keep  the 
curls  of  this  monstrous  head-dress  in  place.  Gentlemen  must, 
I suppose,  wear  this  invention,  and  one  of  the  learned  pro- 
fessions must  show  the  extent  of  the  learning  by  the  splendors 
of  his  full-bottomed  wig.  Yet  I think  that  a young  man 
looks  most  comely  while  he  wears  his  own  hair.  He  had 
cocked  his  hat,  on  which  were  bows,  and  he  wore  a sword. 
He  spoke  also  in  a mincing  London  manner,  having  forsworn 
the  honest  broad  speech  of  Somerset,  and,  but  not  in  the 
presence  of  his  elders,  he  used  strange  oaths  and  ejaculations. 

“ Behold  him!”  said  his  father,  by  no  means  displeased  at 
his  son's  foppery,  because  he  ever  loved  the  city  fashions,  and 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


43 


thought  that  a young  man  did  well  to  dress  and  to  comport 
himself  after  the  way  of  the  world.  “ Behold  him!  Thus  he 
sits  in  the  coffee-house;  thus  he  shows  himself  in  the  pit. 
Youth  is  the  time  for  finery  and  for  folly.  Alas!  would  that 
we  could  bring  back  that  time.  What  saith  John  Dryden — 
glorious  John — or  Sir  Fopling: 

“ ‘ His  various  modes  from  various  fashions  follow; 

One  taught  the  toss,  and  one  the  new  French  wallows 
His  sword-knot  this,  his  cravat  that,  designed, 

And  this  the  yard-long  snake  he  twirls  behind. 

From  one  the  sacred  periwig  he  gained, 

Which  wind  ne’er  blew,  nor  touch  of  hat  profaned.’  ” 

“ Well,  Ben,”  said  Sir  Christopher,  “ if  the  mode  can  help 
thee  to  the  bench  why  not  follow  the  mode?” 

44  It  will  not  hinder,  sir,”  Ben  replied.  “ A man  who  hath 
his  fortune  to  make  does  well  to  be  seen  everywhere,  and  to  be 
dressed  like  other  men  of  his  time.” 

One  must  do  Benjamin  the  justice  to  acknowledge  that 
though,  like  the  young  gentlemen  his  friends  and  companions, 
his  dress  was  foppish  and  his  talk  was  of  the  pleasures  of  the 
town,  he  suffered  nothing  to  stand  in  the  way  of  his  advance- 
ment. He  was  resolved  upon  being  a great  lawyer,  and  there- 
fore if  he  spent  the  evening  in  drinking,  singing,  and  making . 
merry,  he  was  reading  in  chambers  or  else  attending  the 
courts  all  the  day,  and  neglected  nothing  that  would  make 
him  master  of  . his  profession.  And  though  of  learning  he  had 
little  his  natural  parts  were  so  good,  and  his  resolution  was  so 
strong,  that  I doubt  not  he  would  have  achieved  his  ambition 
had  it  not  been  for  the  circumstances  which  afterward  cut 
short  his  career.  His  course  of  life,  by  his  own  boasting,  was 
profligate;  his  friends  were  drinkers  and  revelers;  his  favorite 
haunt  was  the  tavern,  where  they  all  drank  punch  and  sung 
ungodly  songs  and  smoked  tobacco;  and  of  religion  he  seemed 
to  have  no  care  whatever. 

I was  afraid  that  he  would  return  to  the  nauseous  subject 
which  he  had  opened  three  years  before.  Therefore  I con- 
tinued with  my  mother,  and  would  give  him  no  chance  to 
speak  with  me.  But  he  found  me,  and  caught  me  returning 
home  one  evening. 

“ Grace,”  he  said,  “ I feared  that  I might  have  to  go  away 
without  a word  alone  with  thee.” 

“ I want  no  words  alone,  Benjamin.  Let  me  pass.”  For 
he  stood  before  me  in  the  way. 

“ Npt  so  fast,  pretty!”  He  caught  me  by  the  wrist,  and 


44  FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 

being  a young  man  so  strong  and  determined,  he  held  me  as 
by  a vise.  “ Not  so  fast.  Mistress  Grace.  First,  my  dear,  let 
me  tell  thee  that  my  purpose  still  holds;  nay  ” — here  he  swore 
a most  dreadful  impious  oath — “ I am  more  resolved  than 
ever.  There  is  not  a woman,  even  in  London,  that  is  to  be 
compared  with  thee,  child.  What?  Compared  with  thee? 
Why,  they  are  like  the  twinkling  stars  compared  with  the 
glorious  queen  of  night.  What  did  I say? — that  at  nineteen 
thou  wouldst  be  a miracle  of  beauty?  Nay,  that  time  hath 
come  already.  I love  thee,  child.  I love  thee,  I say,  ten 
times  as  much  as  ever  I loved  thee  before.  ” 

He  gasped,  and  then  breathed  hard,  but  still  he  held  me 
fast. 

“ Idle  compliments  cost  a man  nothing,  Benjamin.  Say 
what  you  meant  to  say  and  let  me  go.  If  you  hold  me  any 
longer  I will  cry  out,  and  bring  your  father  to  learn  the 
reason.” 

“ Well,”  he  said,  “ I will  not  keep  thee.  I have  said  what 
I wanted  to  say.  My  time  hath  not  yet  arrived.  Lam  shortly 
to  be  called,  and  "shall  then  begin  to  practice.  When  I come 
back  here  again  Twill  be  with  a ring  in  one  hand,  and  in  the 
other  the  prospect  of  the  woolsack.  Think  upon  that  while  I 
am  gone.  ‘ Your  ladyship  9 is  finer  than  plain  6 inadame/ 
and  the  court  is  more  delightful  than  a village  green  among 
the  pigs  and  ducks.  Think  upon  it  well;  thou  art  a lucky  girl; 
a plain  village  girl  to  be  promoted  to  a coronet!  However,  I 
have  no  fears  for  thee;  thou  wilt  adorn  the  highest  fortune. 
Thou  wilt  be  worthy  of  the  great  place  whither  I shall  lead 
thee.  What?  Is  Sir  George  Jeffreys  a better  man  than  I?  Is 
he  of  better  family?  Had  he  better  interest?  Is  he  a bolder 
man?  Not  so.  Yet  was  Sir  George  a common  serjeant  at 
twenty-three,  and  recorder  at  thirty;  chief-justice  of  Chester 
at  thirty-two.  What  he  hath  done  I can  do.  Moreover,  Sir 
George  hath  done  me  the  honor  to  admit  me  to  his  company, 
and  will  advance  me.  This  he  hath  promised,  both  in  his 
cups  and  when  he  is  sober.  Think  it  over,  child — a ring  in 
one  hand  and  a title  in  the  other.” 

So  Benjamin  went  away  again.  I was  afraid  when  I thought 
of  him  and  his  promise,  because  I knew  him  of  old,  and  his 
eyes  were  as  full  of  determination  as  when  he  would  fight  a 
lad  of  his  own  age,  and  go  on  fighting  till  the  other  had  had 
enough.  Yet  he  could  not  marry  me  against  my  will.  His 
own  father  would  protect  me,  to  say  nothing  of  mine. 

I should  have  told  him  then — as  I had  told  him  before — 
that  I would  never  marry  him.  Then,  perhaps,  he  would 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


45 


have  been  shaken  in  his  purpose.  The  very  thought  of  marry- 
ing him  filled  me  with  terror  unspeakable.  I was  afraid  of 
him  not  only  because  he  was  so  masterful — nay,  women  like  a 
man  to  be  strong  of  will — but  because  he  had  no  religion  in 
him,  and  lived  like  an  atheist,  if  such  a wretch  there  be;  at  all 
events,  with  unconcern  about  his  soul,  and  because  his  life  was 
profligate,  his  tastes  were  gross,  and  he  was  a drinker  of  much 
wine.  Even  at  the  manor  house  1 had  seen  him  at  supper 
drinking  until  his  cheeks  were  puffed  out  and  his  voice  grew 
thick.  What  kind  of  happiness  would  there  be  for  a wife 
whose  husband  has  to  be  carried  home  by  his  varlets  too  heavy 
with  drink  to  stand  or  to  speak? 

Alas!  there  is  one  thing  which  girls,  happily,  do  never  ap- 
prehend. They  can  not  understand  how  it  is  possible  for  a 
man  to  become  so  possessed  with  the  idea  of  their  charms, 
which  they  hold  themselves  as  of  small  account,  knowing  how 
fleeting  they  are,  and  of  what  small  value,  that  he  will  go 
through  fire  and  water  for  that  woman;  yea,  and  break  all  the 
commandments,  heedless  of  his  immortal  soul,  rather  than 
suffer  another  man  to  take  her — and  that  even  though  he 
knows  that  the  poor  creature  loves  him  not,  or  loves  another 
man.  If  maidens  knew  this  I think  that  they  would  go  in 
fear  and  trembling  lest  they  should  be  coveted  [by  some  wild 
beast  in  human  shape,  and  prove  the  death  of  the  gallant 
gentleman  whom  they  would  choose  for  their  lover.  Or  they 
would  make  for  themselves  convents  and  hide  in  them,  so 
great  would  be  their  fear.  But  it  is  idle  to  speak  of  this,  be- 
cause, say  what  one  will,  girls  can  never  understand  the  power 
and  vehemence  of  love  when  once  it  hath  seized  and  doth 
thoroughly  possess  a man. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MEDICINE  DOCTOR. 

Humphrey  did  not,  like  Benjamin,  brag  of  the  things  he 
would  do  when  he  should  go  forth  to  the  world.  Neverthe- 
less, he  thought  much  about  his  future,  and  frequently  he  dis- 
coursed with  me  about  the  life  that  he  fain  would  lead.  A 
young  man,  I think,  wants  some  one  with  whom  he  may  speak 
freely  concerning  the  thoughts  which  fill  his  soul.  We  who 
belong  to  the  sex  which  receives  but  does  not  create  or  invent 
— which  profits  by  man’s  good  work,  and  suffers  from  the  evil 
which  he  too  often  does — have  no  such  thoughts  and  am- 
bitions. 


46 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


“ I can  not,”  he  would  say,  “ take  upon  me  holy  orders,  as 
Mr.  Boscorel  would  have  me,  promising,  in  my  cousin  Robin’s 
name,  this  living  after  his  death,  because,  though  I am  in  truth 
a mere  pauper  and  dependent,  there  are  in  me  none  of  those 
prickings  of  the  spirit  which  I could  interpret  into  a Divine  call 
for  the  ministry;  next,  because  I could  not  in  conscience  sign 
the  Thirty-nine  Articles  while  I still  held  that  the  Non-con- 
formist way  of  worship  was  more  consonant  with  the  Word  of 
God.  And,  again,  I am  of  opinion  that  the  law,  which  forbids 
any  but  a well-formed  man  from  serving  at  the  altar,  hath  in 
it  something  eternal.  It  denotes  that  as  no  cripple  may  serve 
at  the  earthly  altar,  so  in  heaven,  of  which  the  altar  is  an  em- 
blem, all  those  who  dwell  therein  shall  be  perfect  in  body  as  in 
soul.  What,  then,  is  such  an  one  as  myself,  who  hath  some 
learning  and  no  fortune,  to  do?  Sir  Christopher,  my  bene- 
factor, will  maintain  me  at  Oxford  until  I have  taken  a degree. 
This  is  more  than  I could  have  expected;  therefore  I am  re- 
solved to  take  a degree  in  medicine.  It  is  the  only  profession 
fit  for  a misshapen  creature  like  me.  They  will  not  laugh  at 
me  when  I alleviate  their  pains. ” 

“ Could  any  one  laugh  at  you,  Humphrey?” 

“ Pray  Heaven  I frighten  not  the  ladies  at  the  first  aspect  of 
me.”  He  laughed,  but  not  with  merriment;  for,  indeed,  a 
cripple  or  a hunchback  can  not  laugh  mirthfully  over  his  own 
misfortune.  46  Some  men  speak  scornfully  of  the  profession,” 
he  went  on.  “ The  great  French  playwright,  Monsieur 
Moliere,  hath  made  the  physicians  the  butt  and  laughing-stock 
of  all  Paris.  Yet  consider:  it  is  medicine  which  prolongs  our 
days  and  relieves  our  pains.  Before  the  science  was  studied, 
the  wretch  who  caught  a fever  in  the  marshy  forest  lay  down 
and  died;  an  ague  lasted  all  one’s  life;  a sore  throat  putrefied 
and  killed;  a rheumatism  threw  a man  upon  the  bed  from 
which  he  would  never  rise.  The  physician  is  man’s  chief 
friend.  If  our  sovereigns  studied  the  welfare  of  humanity  as 
deeply  as  the  art  of  war,  they  would  maintain,  at  vast  expense, 
great  colleges  of  learned  men  continually  engaged  in  discover- 
ing the  secrets  of  nature — the  causes  and  the  remedies  of  dis- 
ease. What  better  use  can  a man  make  of  his  life  than  to 
discover  one — only  one — secret  which  will  drive  away  part  of 
the  agony  of  disease?  The  Jews,  more  merciful  than  the 
Romans,  stupefied  their  criminals  after  they  were  crucified;  so 
they  died,  indeed,  but  their  sufferings  were  less.  So  the  phy- 
sician, though  in  the  end  all  men  must  die,  may  help  them  to 
die  without  pain.  Nay,  I have  even  thought  that  we  might 
devise  means  of  causing  the  patient  by  some  potent  drug  to 


FOR  FAITH  AJSTD  FREEDOM.  47 

fall  into  so  deep  a sleep  that  even  the  surgeon’s  knife  shall  not 
cause  him  to  awaken.’' 

He  therefore,  before  he  entered  at  Oxford,  read  with  my  fa- 
ther many  learned  books  of  the  ancients  on  the  science  and 
practice  of  medicine,  and  studied  botany  with  the  help  of  such 
books  as  he  could  procure. 

Some  men  have  but  one  side  to  them — that  is  to  say,  the 
only  active  part  of  them  is  engaged  in  but  one  study;  the  rest 
is  given  up  to  ease  or  indolence.  Thus  Benjamin  studied  law 
diligently,  but  nothing  else.  Humphrey,  for  his  part,  read 
his  Galen  and  his  Celsus,  but  he  neglected  not  the  cultivation 
of  those  arts  and  accomplishments  in  which  Mr.  Boscorel  was 
as  ready  a teacher  as  he  was  a ready  scholar.  He  thus  learned 
the  history  of  painting  and  sculpture  and  architecture,  and 
that  of  coins  and  medals,  so  that  at  eighteen  Humphrey  might 
already  have  set  up  as  a virtuoso. 

Nor  was  this  all.  Still  by  the  help  of  the  rector,  he  learned 
the  use  of  the  pencil  and  the  brush,  and^  could  both  draw 
prettily  and  paint  in  water-colors,  whether  the  cottages  or  the 
church,  the  cows  in  the  fields  or  the  woods  and  hills.  ' I have 
many  pictures  of  his  painting  which  he  gave  me  from  time  to 
time.  And  he  could  play  sweetly,  whether  on  the  spinet  or 
the  violin  or  the  guitar,  spending  many  hours  every  week  with 
Mr.  Boscorel,  playing  duettos  together;  and  willingly  he  would 
sing,  having  a rich  and  full  voice  very  delightful  to  hear. 
When  I grew  a great  girl,  and  had  advanced  far  enough,  I 
was  permitted  to  play  with  them.  There  was  no  end  to  the 
music  which  Mr.  Boscorel  possessed.  First,  he  had  a great 
store  of  English  ditties  such  as  country  people  love,  as,  “ Sing 
all  a green  willow,”  “ Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may,”  or 
“ Once  I loved  a maiden  fair.  ” There  was  nothing  rough  or 
rude  in  these  songs,  though  I am  informed  that  much  wicked- 
ness is  taught  by  the  ribald  songs  that  are  sung  in  play-houses 
and  coffee-rooms.  And  when  we  were  not  playing  or  singing, 
Mr.  Boscorel  would  read  us  poetry — portions  from  Shakespeare 
or  Ben  Jonson,  or  out  of  Milton’s  6 6 Paradise  Lost,”  or  from 
Herrick,  who  is  surely  the  sweetest  poet  that  ever  lived,  “yet 
marred,”  said  Mr.  Boscorel,  “ by  much  coarseness  and  cor- 
ruption. ” Now,  one  day,  after  we  had  been  thus  reading — 
one  winter  afternoon,  when  the  sun  lay  upon  the  .meadows — 
Humphrey  walked  home  with  me,  and  on  the  way  confessed, 
with  many  blushes,  that  he,  too,  had  been  writing  verses. 
And  with  that  he  lugged  a paper  out  of  his  pocket. 

“ They  are  for  thine  own  eyes  only,  Grace.  Truly,  my  dear, 
thou  hast  the  finest  eyes  in  the  world.  They  are  for  no  other 


48 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


eyes  than  thine/*  he  repeated.  “ Not  for  Robin,  mind,  lest 
he  laugh;  poetry  hath  in  it  something  sacred,  so  that  even  the 
writer  of  bad  verses  can  not  bear  to  Have  them  laughed  at. 
When  thou  art  a year  or  two  older  thou  wilt  understand  that 
they  were  written  for  thy  heart  as  well  as  for  thine  eyes. 
Yet,  if  thou  like  the  verses,  they  may  be  seen  by  Mr.  Boscorel, 
but  in  private;  and  if  he  laugh  at  them,  do  not  tell  me.  Yet, 
again,  one  would  like  to  know  what  he  said;  wherefore  tell  me, 
though  his  words  be  like  a knife  in  my  side.** 

Thus  he  wavered  between  wishing  to  show  them  to  his  mas- 
ter in  art,  and  fearing. 

In  the  end,  when  I showed  them  to  Mr.  Boscorel,  he  said 
that  for  a beginner  they  were  very  well — very  well  indeed;  that 
the  rhymes  were  correct,  and  the  meter  true;  that  years  and 
practice  would  give  greater  firmness,  and  that  the  crafty  in- 
terlacing of  thought  and  passion,  which  was  the  characteristic 
of  Italian  verse,  could  only  be  learned  by  much  reading  of  the 
Italian  poets.  More  he  said,  speaking  upon  the  slight  subject 
of  rhyme  and  poetry  with  as  much  seriousness  and  earnestness 
as  if  he  were  weighing  and  comparing  texts  of  Scripture. 

Then  he  gave  me  back  the  verses  with  a sigh. 

“ Child/*  he  said,  “ to  none  of  us  is  given  what  most  we 
desire.  For  my  part,  I longed  in  his  infancy  that  my  son 
should  grow  up  even  as  Humphrey — as  quick  to  learn,  with  as 
true  a taste,  with  as  correct  an  ear,  with  a hand  so  skillful. 
But,  you  see,  I complain  not,  though  Benjamin  loves  the  noisy 
tavern  better  than  the  quiet  coffee-house  where  the  wits  resort. 
To  him  such  things  as  verses,  art,  and  music  are  foolishness. 
I say  that  I complain  not;  but  I would  to  Heaven  that  Hum- 
phrey were  my  own,  and  that  his  shoulders  were  straight,  poor 
lad!  Thy  father  hath  made  him  a Puritan;  he  is  such  as  John 
Milton  in  his  youth,  and  as  beautiful  in  face  as  that  stout 
Republican.  I doubt  not  that  we  shall  have  from  the  hand  of 
Humphrey,  if  he  live  and  prosper,  something  fine,  the  nature 
of  which,  whether  it  is  to  be  in  painting,  or  in  music,  or  in 
poetry,  I know  not.  Take  the  verses,  and  take  care  that  thou 
lose  them  not;  and,  child,  remember,  the  poet  is  allowed  to 
say  what  he  pleases  about  a woman *s  eyes.  Be  not  deceived 
into  thinking — But  no,  no,  there  is  no  fear.  Good-night, 
thou  sweet  and  innocent  saint.  ** 

I knew  not  then  what  he  meant,  but  these  are  the  verses; 
and  I truly  think  that  they  are  very  moving  and  religious;  for 
if  woman  be  truly  the  most  beautiful  work  of  the  Creator 
(which  all  men  aver),  then  it  behooves  her  all  the  more  still  to 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM.  49 

point  upward.  I read  them  with  a pleasure  and  surprise  that 
filled  my  whole  soul,  and  inflamed  my  heart  with  pious  joy. 

“ Around,  above,  and  everywhere 

The  earth  hath  many  a lovely  thing; 

The  zephyrs  soft,  the  flowers  fair, 

The  babbling  brook,  the  bubbling  spring. 

“ The  gray  of  dawn,  the  azure  sky, 

The  sunset  glow,  the  evening  gloom; 

The  warbling  thrush,  the  skylark  high, 

The  blossoming  hedge,  the  garden’s  bloom. 

“ The  sun  in  state,  the  moon  in  pride. 

The  twinkling  stars  in  order  laid; 

The  winds  that  ever  race  and  ride, 

The  shadows  flying  o’er  the  glade. 

“ Oh!  many  a lovely  thing  hath  earth, 

To  charm  the  eye  and  witch  the  soul; 

Yet  one  there  is  of  passing  worth — 

For  that  one  thing  I give  the  whole. 

“ The  crowning  work,  the  last  thing  made. 

Creation’s  masterpiece  to  be— 

Bend  o’er  yon  stream,  and  there  displayed. 

This  wondrous  thing  reflected  see. 

“ Behold  a face  for  Heaven  designed; 

See  how  those  eyes  thy  soul  betray: 

Love — secret  love — there  sits  enshrined, 

And  upward  still  doth  point  the  way.” 

When  Humphrey  went  away  he  did  not,  like  Benjamin, 
come  blustering  and  declaring  that  he  would  marry  me,  and 
that  he  would  break  the  skull  of  any  other  man  who  dared 
make  love  to  me;  not  at  all;  Humphrey,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  told  me  that  he  was  sorry  I could  not  go  to  Oxford  as 
well;  that  he  was  going  to  lose  the  sweetest  companion;  and 
that  he  should  always  love  me;  and  then  he  kissed  me  on  the 
forehead,  and  so  departed.  Why  should  he  not  always  love 
me?  I knew  very  well  that  he  loved  me,  and  that  I loved 
him.  Although  he  w|s  so  young,  being  only  seventeen  when 
he  was  entered  at  Exeter  College,  I suppose  there  never  was  a 
young  gentleman  went  to  the  University  of  Oxford  with  so 
many  accomplishments  and  so  much  learning.  By  my  fa- 
ther's testimony  he  read  Greek  as  if  it  were  his  mother-tongue, 
and  he  wrote  and  conversed  easily  in  Latin;  and  you  have 
heard  what  arts  and  accomplishments  he  added  to  this  solid 
learning.  He  was  elected  to  a scholarship  at  his  college^  that 


50 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


of  Exeter,,  and  after  he  took  his  degree  as  Bachelor  of  Medicine 
he  was  made  a Fellow  of  All  Souls,  where  Mr.  Boscorel  him- 
self had  also  been  a fellow.  This  election  was  not  only  a 
great  distinction  for  him,  but  it  gave  him  what  a learned 
young  man  especially  desires — the  means  of  living  and  of  pur- 
suing his  studies. 

While  he  was  at  Oxford  he  wrote  letters  to  Sir  Christopher, 
to  Mr.  Boscorel,  and  to  my  father  (to  whom  also  he  sent  such 
new  books  and  pamphlets  as  he  thought  would  interest  him). 
To  me  he  sent  sometimes  drawings  and  sometimes  books,  but 
never  verses. 

Now  (to  make  an  end  of  Humphrey  for  the  present)  when 
he  had  obtained  his  fellowship  he  asked  for  and  obtained  leave 
of  absence  and  permission  to  study  medicine  in  those  great 
schools,  which  far  surpass,  they  say,  our  English  schools  of 
medicine.  These  are  that  of  Montpellier;  the  yet  more  famous 
school  of  Padua,  in  Italy;  and  that  of  Leyden,  whither  many 
Englishmen  resort  for  study,  notably  Mr.  Evelyn,  whose  book 
called  “ Sylva  " was  in  the  rector's  library. 

He  carried  on  during  the  whole  of  this  time  a correspond- 
ence with  Mr.  Boscorel  on  the  paintings,  statues,  and  arch- 
itecture to  be  seen  wherever  his  travels  carried  him.  These 
letters  Mr.  Boscorel  read  aloud,  with  a map  spread  before  him, 
discoursing  on  the  history  of  the  place  and  the  chief  things  to 
be  seen  there,  before  he  began  to  read.  Surely  there  never 
was  a man  so  much  taken  up  with  the  fine  arts,  especially  as 
they  were  practiced  by  the  ancients. 

There  remains  the  last  of  the  boys — Robin,  Sir  Christopher's 
grandson  and  heir.  I should  like  this  story  to  be  all  about 
Robin — yet  one  must  needs  speak  of  the  others.  I declare 
that  from  the  beginning  there  never  was  a boy  more  happy, 
more  jolly,  never  any  one  more  willing  to  be  always  making 
some  one  happy.  He  loved  the  open  air,  the  wild  creatures, 
the  trees,  the  birds,  everything  that  lives  beneath  the  sky;  yet 
not  like  my  poor  brother  Barnaby — a hater  of  books.  He  read 
all  the  books  which  told  about  creatures,  or  hunting,  or  coun- 
try life,  and  all  voyages  and  travels.  A fresh-colored,  whole- 
some lad,  not  so  grave  as  Humphrey,  nor  so  moody  as  Ben- 
jamin, who  always  seemed  to  carry  with  him  the  scent  of 
woods  and  fields.  He  was  to  Sir  Christopher  what  Benjamin 
was  to  Jacob.  Even  my  father  loved  him,  though  he  was  so 
poor  a scholar. 

Those  who  stay  at  home  have  homely  wits,  therefore  Robin 
must  follow  Humphrey  to  Oxford.  He  went  thither  the  year 
after  his  cousin.  I never  learned  that  he  obtained  a scholar- 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


51 


ship,  or  that  he  was  considered  one  of  the  younger  pillars  of 
that  learned  and  ancient  university;  or,  indeed,  that  he  took  a 
degree  at  all. 

After  he  left  Oxford  he  must  go  to  London,  there  to  study 
Justices*  Law,  and  fit  himself  for  the  duties  he  would  have  to 
fulfill.  Also,  his  grandfather  would  have  him  acquire  some 
knowledge  of  the  court  and  the  city,  and  the  ways  of  the  great 
and  the  rich.  This,  too,  he  did,  though  he  never  learned  to 
prefer  those  ways  to  the  simple  customs  and  habits  of  his 
Somerset  village. 

He,  too,  like  the  other  two,  bade  me  a tender  farewell. 

“Poor  Grace !”  he  said,  taking  both  my  hands  in  his. 
“ What  wilt  thou  do  when  I am  gone?” 

* Indeed,  since  Humphrey  went  away  we  had  been  daily  com- 
panions, and  at  the  thought  of  being  thus  left  alone  the  tears 
were  running  down  my  cheeks. 

“ Why,  sweetheart,”  he  said,  “ to  think  that  I should  ever 
make  thee  cry — I who  desire  nothing  but  to  make  thee  always 
laugh  and  be  happy!  What  wilt  thou  do?  Go  often  to  my 
mother;  she  loves  thee  as  if  her  own  daughter.  Go  and  talk  to 
her  concerning  me.  It  pleaseth  the  poor  soul  to  be  still  talking 
of  her  son.  And  forget  not  my  grandfather.  Play  back- 
gammon with  him;  fill  his  pipe  for  him;  sing  to  the  spinet 
for  him;  talk  to  him  about  Humphrey  and  me.  And  forget 
not  Mr.  Boscorel,  my  uncle.  The  poor  man  looks  as  melan- 
choly since  Humphrey  went  away  as  a turtle  robbed  of  her 
nest.  I saw  him  yesterday  opening  one  of  his  drawers  full  of 
medals,  and  he  sighed  over  them  fit  to  break  his  heart.  He 
sighed  for  Humphrey,  not  for  Ben.  Well,  child,  what  more? 
Take  Lance  ” — *twas  his  dog — “ for  a run  every  day;  make 
George  Sparrow  keep  an  eye  upon  the  stream  for  otters;  and 
— there  are  a thousand  things,  but  I will  write  them  down. 
Have  patience  with  the  dear  old  man  when  he  will  be  still  talk-v 
ing  about  me.” 

“ Patiencb,  Robin!”  I said.  “Why,  we  all  love  to  talk 
about  thee.” 

“ Do  you  all  love  to  talk  about  me?  Dost  thou  too,  Grace? 
Oh,  my  dear!  my  dear!”  Here  he  took  me  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  me  on  the  lips.  “ Dost  thou  also  love  to  talk  about 
me?  Why,  my  dear,  I shall  think  of  nothing  but  of  thee;  be- 
cause— oh,  my  dear!  my  dear! — I love  thee  with  all  my 
heart.” 

Well,  I was  still  so  foolish  that  I understood  nothing  more 
than  that  we  all  loved  him,  and  he  loved  us  all. 

“ Grace,  I will  write  letters  to  thee.  I will  put  them  in  the 


52 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


packet  for  my  mother.  Thus  thou  wilt  understand  that  I am 
always  thinking  of  thee.” 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  But  the  letters  were  so  fall  of 
the  things  he  was  doing  and  seeing  that  it  was  quite  clear  that 
his  mind  had  plenty  of  room  for  more  than  one  object.  To 
be  sure,  I should  have  been  foolish  indeed  had  I desired  that 
his  letters  should  tell  me  that  he  was  always  thinking  about 
me,  when  he  should  have  been  attending  to  his  business. 

After  a year  in  London  his  grandfather  thought  that  he 
should  travel.  Therefore  he  went  abroad,  and  joined  Hum- 
phrey at  Montpellier,  and  with  him  rode  northward  to  Leyden, 
where  he  sojourned  while  his  cousin  attended  the  lectures  of 
that  famous  school. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A ROYAL  PROGRESS. 

When  all  the  boys  were  gone  the  time  was  quiet  indeed  for 
those  who  were  left  behind.  My  mother's  wheel  went  spinning 
still,  but  I think  that  some  kindness  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Bos- 
corel  as  well  as  Sir  Christopher  caused  her  weekly  tale  of  yarn 
to  be  of  less  importance.  And  as  for  me,  not  only  would  she 
never  suffer  me  to  sit  at  the  spinning-wheel,  but  there  was  so 
much  request  of  me  (to  replace  the  boys)  that  I was  nearly  all 
the  day  either  with  Sir  Christopher,  or  with  madame,  or  with 
Mr.  Boscorel. 

Up  to  the  year  1680,  or  thereabouts,  I paid  no  more  atten- 
tion to  political  matters  than  any  young  woman  with  no  knowl- 
edge may  be  supposed  to  give.  Yet,  of  course,  I was  on  the 
side  of  liberty,  both  civil  and  religious.  How  should  that  be 
otherwise,  my  father  being  such  as  he  was,  muzzled  for  all 
these  years,  the  work  of  his  life  prevented  and  destroyed? 

It  was  in  that  year,  however,  that  I became  a most  zealous 
partisan  and  lover  of  the  Protestant  cause,  in  the*  way  that  I 
am  about  to  relate. 

Everybody  knows  that  there  is  no  part  of  Great  Britain  (not 
even  Scotland)  where  the  Protestant  religion  hath  supporters 
more  stout  and  stanch  than  Somerset  and  Devonshire.  I hope 
I shall  not  be  accused  of  disloyalty  to  Queen  Anne,  under 
whom  we  flourish  and  are  happy,  when  I say  that  in  the  West 
of  England  we  had  grown — I know  not  how — to  regard  the 
late  misguided  Duke  of  Monmouth  as  the  champion  of  the 
Protestant  faith.  When,  therefore,  the  duke  came  into  the 
West  of  England  in  the  year  1680,  five  years  before  the  re- 


FOR  FAITH  A HD  FREEDOM. 


53 


bellion,  he  was  everywhere  received  with  acclamations,  and  by 
crowds  who  gathered  round  him  to  witness  their  loyalty  to  the 
Protestant  faith.  They  came  also  to  gaze  upon  the  gallant 
commander  who  had  defeated  the  French  and  the  Dutch,  and 
was  said  (but  erroneously)  to  be  as  wise  as  he  was  brave,  and 
as  religious  as  he  was  beautiful  to  look  upon.  As  for  his  wis- 
dom, those  who  knew  him  best  have  since  assured  the  world 
that  he  had  little  or  none,  his  judgment  being  always  swayed 
and  determined  for  him  by  crafty  and  subtle  persons  seeking 
their  own  interests.  And  as  for  his  religion,  whatever  may 
have  been  his  profession,  good  works  were  wanting — as  is  now 
very  well  known.  But  at  that  time,  and  among  our  people, 
the  wicked  ways  of  courts  were  only  half  understood.  And 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that,  whether  he  was  wise  or  religious, 
the  show  of  affection  with  which  the  duke  was  received  upon 
this  journey  turned  his  head,  and  caused  him  to  think  that 
these  people  would  rally  round  him  if  he  called  upon  them. 
And  I suppose  that  there  is  nothing  which  more  delights  a 
prince  than  to  believe  that  his  friends  are  ready  even  to  lay 
down  their  lives  in  his  behalf. 

At  that  time  the  country  was  greatly  agitated  by  anxiety 
concerning  the  succession.  Those  who  were  nearest  the  throne 
knew  that  King  Charles  was  secretly  a Papist.  We  in  the 
country  had  not  learned  that  dismal  circumstance;  yet  we 
knew  the  religion  of  the  Duke  of  York.  Thousands  there 
were,  like  Sir  Christopher  himself,  who  now  lamented  the  re- 
turn of  the  king,  considering  the  disgraces  which  had  fallen 
upon  the  country.  But  what  was  done  could  not  be  undone. 
They  therefore  asked  themselves  if  the  nation  would  suffer  an 
^avowed  Papist  to  ascend  a Protestant  throne.  If  not,  what 
should  be  done?  And  here,  as  everybody  knows,  was  opinion 
divided.  For  some  declared  that  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  had 
he  his  rights,  was  the  lawful  heir;  and  others  maintained,  in 
the  king’s  own  word,  that  he  was  never  married  to  Mistress 
Lucy  Waters.  Therefore  they  would  have  the  Duke  of  York’s 
daughter,  a Protestant  princess,  married  to  William  of  Orange, 
proclaimed  queen.  The  Monmouth  party  were  strong,  how- 
ever, and  it  was  even  said — Mr.  Henry  Clark,  minister  of 
Crewkern,  wrote  a pamphlet  to  prove  it — that  a poor  woman, 
Elizabeth  Parcet  by  name,  touched  the  duke  (he  being  igno- 
rant of  the  thing)  for  king’s  evil,  and  was  straightway  healed. 
Sir  Christopher  laughed  at  the  story,  saying  that  the  king 
himself,  whether  he  was  descended  from  a Scottish  Stuart  or 
from  King  Solomon  himself,  could  no  more  cure  that  dreadful 
disease  than  the  seventh  son  of  a seventh  son  (as  some  foolish 


54 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


people  believe),  or  the  rubbing  of  the  part  affected  by  the  hand 
of  a man  that  had  been  hanged  (as  others  do  foolishly  believe), 
which  is  the  reason  why  on  the  gibbets  hanging-corpses  are 
always  handless. 

It  ^as  noised  abroad,  beforehand,  that  the  duke  was  going 
to  ride  through  the  west  country,  in  order  to  visit  his  friends. 
The  progress  (it  was  more  like  a royal  progress  than  the  jour- 
ney of  a private  nobleman)  began  with  his  visit  to  Mr.  Thomas 
Thynne,  of  Longleat  House.  It  is  said  that  his  chief  reason 
for  going  to  that  house  was  to  connect  himself  with  the  obliga- 
tion of  the  tenant  of  Longleat  to  give  the  king  and  his  suite  a 
nights  lodging  when  they  visited  that  part  of  the  country. 
Mr.  Thynne,  who  entertained  the  duke  on  this  occasion,  was 
the  same  who  was  afterward  murdered  in  London  by  Count 
Konigsmark.  They  called  him  “Tom  of  Ten  Thousand.-” 
The  poet  Dryden  hath  written  of  this  progress,  in  that  poem 
wherein,  under  the  fabled  name  of  Absalom,  he  figures  the 
duke: 

“ He  now  begins  his  progress  to  ordain, 

With  chariots,  horsemen,  and  a numerous  train. 

Fame  runs  before  him  as  the  morning  star, 

And  shouts  of  joy  salute  him  from  afar. 

Each  house  receives  him  as  a guardian  god, 

And  consecrates  the  place  of  his  abode.” 

i 

It  was  for  his  hospitable  treatment  of  the  duke  that  Mr. 
Thynne  was  immediately  afterward  deprived  of  the  command 
of  the  Wiltshire  Militia. 

“ Son-in-law,”  said  Sir  Christopher,  “I  would  ride  out  to 
meet  the  duke  in  respect  to  his  Protestant  professions.  As  for 
any  pretensions  he  may  have  to  the  successsion,  I know  noth- 
ing of  them.” 

“ I will  ride  with  you,  sir,”  said  the  rector,  “ to  meet  the 
son  of  the  king.  And  as  for  any  Protestant  professions,  I 
know  nothing  of  them.  His  grace  remains,  I believe,  within 
the  pale  of  the  Church  as  by  law  established.  Let  us  all  ride 
out  together.  ” 

Seeing  that  my  father  also  rode  with  them,  it  is  certain  that 
there  were  many  and  diverse  reasons  why  so  many  thousands 
gathered  together  to  welcome  the  duke.  Madame,  Robin's 
mother,  out  of  her  kind  heart  invited  me  to  accompany  her, 
and  gave  me  a white  frock  to  wear,  and  blue  ribbons  to  put 
into  it. 

We  made,  with  our  servants,  a large  party.  We  were  also 
joined  by  many  of  the  tenants,  with  their  sons  and  wives,  so 
that  when  we  came  to  Ilchester,  Sir  Christopher  was  riding  at 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


55 


the  head  of  a great  company  of  sixty  or  more,  and  very  fine 
they  looked,  all  provided  with  blue  favors  in  honor  of  the 
duke. 

From  Bradford  Orcas  to  Ilchester  is  but  six  miles  as  the 
crow  flies,  but  the  ways  (which  are  narrow  and  foul  in  winter) 
do  so  wind  and  turn  about  that  they  add  two  miles  at  least  to 
the  distance.  Fortunately  the  season  was  summer — namely, 
August — when  the  sun  is  hottest  and  the  earth  is  dry,  so  that 
no  one  was  bogged  on  the  way. 

We  started  betimes,  namely,  at  six  in  the  morning,  because 
we  knew  not  for  certain  at  what  time  the  duke  would  arrive  at 
Ilchester.  When  we  came  forth  from  the  Manor  House  the 
farmers  were  already  waiting  for  us,  and  so,  after  greetings 
from  his  honor,  they  fell  in  and  followed.  We  first  took  the 
narrow  and  rough  lane  which  leads  to  the  high-road;  but  when 
we  reached  it  we  found  it  full  of  people,  riding,  like  ourselves, 
or  trudging,  staff  in  hand,  all  in  the  same  direction.  They 
were  going  to  gaze  upon  the  Protestant  duke,  who,  if  he  had 
his  way,  would  restore  freedom  of  conscience,  and  abolish  the 
Acts  against  the  Non-conformists.  We  rode  through  Marston 
Magna,  but  only  the  old  peopJe  and  the  little  children  were 
left  there;  in  the  fields  the  ripe  corn  stood  waiting  to  be  cut; 
in  the  farm-yards  the  beasts  were  standing  idle;  all  the  hinds 
were  gone  to  I] Chester  to  see  the  duke.  And  I began  to  fear 
lest  when  we  got  to  Ilchester  we  should  be  too  late.  At  Mars- 
ton we  left  the  main  road  and  entered  upon  a road  (call  it  a 
track  rather  than  a road)  across  the  country,  which  is  here  flat 
and  open.  In  winter  it  is  miry  and  boggy,  but  it  was  now  dry 
and  hard.  This  path  brought  us  again  to  the  main  road  in  two 
miles  or  thereabouts,  and  here  we  were  but  a mile  or  so  from 
Ilchester.  Now,  such  a glorious  sight  as  awaited  us  here  I 
never  expected  to  see.  Once  again,  after  five  years,  I was  to 
see  a welcome  still  more  splendid,  but  nothing  can  ever  efface 
from  my  memory  that  day.  For  first,  the  roads,  as  I have 
said,  were  thronged  with  rustics,  and  next,  when  we  rode  into 
the  town  we  found  it  filled  with  gentlemen  most  richly  dressed, 
and  ladies  so  beautiful,  and  with  such  splendid  attire,  that  it 
dazzled  my  eyes  to  look  upon  them  It  was  a grand  thing  to 
see  the  gentlemen  • take  off  their  hats  and  cry,  “ Huzza  for 
brave  Sir  Christopher  P*  Everybody  knew  his  opinions  and 
on  what  side  he  had  fought  in  the  Civil  War.  The  old  man 
bent  his  head,  and  1 think  that  he  was  pleased  with  this  mark 
of  honor. 

The  town,  which,  though  ancient,  is  now  decayed  and  hath 
but  few  good  houses  in  it,  was  now  made  glorious  with  bright- 


56 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


colored  cloths,  carpets,  flags,  and  ribbons.  There  were  bands 
o f music;  the  bells  of  the  church  were  ringing;  the  main  street 
was  like  a fair,  with  booths  and  stalls;  and  in  the  market- 
place there  were  benches  set  up  with  white  canvas  covering, 
where  sat  ladies  in  their  fine  dresses,  some  of  them  with  naked 
shoulders  unseemly  to  behold ; yet  it  was  pretty  to  see  the  long 
curls  lying  on  their  white  shoulders.  Some  of  them  sat  with 
half-closed  eyes,  which,  I have  since  learned,  is  a fashion  of 
the  court.  Mostly  they  wore  satin  petticoats,  and  demi-gowns 
also  of  satin,  furnished  with  a long  train.  Our  place  was  be- 
side the  old  cross  with  its  gilt  ball  and  vane.  The  people  who 
filled  the  streets  came  from  Sherborne,  from  Bruton,  from 
Shepton,  from  Glastonbury,  from  Langport,  and  from  Somer- 
ton,  and  from  the  villages  round.  It  was  computed  that  there 
were  twenty  thousand  of  them.  Two  thousand  at  least  rode 
out  to  meet  the  duke,  and  followed  after  him  when  he  rode 
through  the  town.  And,  oh!  the  shouting  as  he  drew  near, 
the  clashing  of  bells,  the  beating  of  the  drums,  the  blowing  of 
the  horns,  the  firing  of  the  guns,  as  if  the  more  noise  they 
made  the  greater  would  be  the  duke. 

Since  that  day  I have  not  wondered  at  the  power  which  a 
prince  hath  of  drawing  men  after  him,  even  to  the  death. 
Never  was  heir  to  the  crown  received  with  such  joy  and  wel- 
come as  was  this  young  man,  who  had  no  title  to  the  crown, 
and  was  base-born.  Yet,  because  he  was  a brave  young  man, 
and  comely  above  all  other  young  men,  gracious  of  speech,  and 
ready  with  a laugh  and  a joke,  and  because  he  was  the  son  of 
the  king,  and  the  reputed  champion  of  the  Protestant  faith, 
the  people  could  not  shout  too  loud  for  him. 

The  duke  was  at  this  time  in  the  prime  of  manhood,  being 
thirty-five  years  of  age.  “ At  that  age,”  Mr.  Boscorel  used  to 
say,  “ one  would  desire  to  remain  if  the  body  of  clay  were  im- 
mortal, for  then  the  volatile  humors  of  youth  have  been  dis- 
sipated. The  time  of  follies  has  passed;  love  is  regarded  with 
the  sober  eyes  of  experience;  knowledge  has  been  acquired; 
skill  of  eye  and  hand  has  been  gained,  if  one  is  so  happy  as  to 
be  a follower  of  art  and  music;  wisdom  hath  been  reached,  if 
wisdom  is  ever  to  be  attained.  But  wisdom,”  he  would  add, 
“ is  a quality  generally  lacking  at  every  period  of  life. ” 

“ When  last  I saw  the  duke,”  he  told  us  while  we  waited, 
“ was  fifteen  years  ago,  in  St.  James's  Park.  He  was  walking 
with  the  king,  his  father,  who  had  his  arm  about  his  son's 
shoulders,  and  regarded  him  fondly.  At  that  time  he  was, 
indeed,  a very  David  for  beauty.  1 suppose  that  he  hath  not 
kept  that  singular  loveliness  which  made  him  the  darling  of 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


57 


the  court.  That,  indeed,  were  not  a thing  to  be  desired  or 
expected.  He  is  now  the  hero  of  Maestricht,  and  the  Chan- 
cellor  of  Cambridge  University.” 

And  then  all  hats  were  palled  off,  and  the  ladies  waved  their 
handkerchiefs,  and  the  men  shouted,  and  you  would  have 
thought  the  bells  would  have  pulled  the  old  tower  down  with 
the  vehemence  of  their  ringing;  for  the  duke  was  riding  into 
the  town. 

He  was  no  longer  a beautiful  boy,  but  a man  at  whose  aspect 
every  heart  was  softened.  His  enemies,  in  his  presence,  could 
not  blame  him;  his  friends,  at  sight  of  him,  could  not  praise 
him,  of  such  singular  beauty  was  he  possessed.  Softness,  gen- 
tleness, kindness,  and  good-will  reigned  in  his  large,  soft  eyes; 
graciousness  sat  upon  his  lips,  and  all  his  face  seemed  to  smile 
as  he  rode  slowly  in  the  lane  formed  by  the  crowd  on  either 
hand. 

What  said  the  Poet  Dryden  in  that  same  poem  of  his  from 
which  I have  already  quoted  ? 

“ Early  in  foreign  fields  he  won  renown 
With  kings  and  states  allied  to  Israel’s  crown; 

In  peace  the  thoughts  of  war  he  could  remove, 

And  seemed  as  he  were  only  born  for  love. 

Whate’er  he  did  was  done  with  so  much  ease, 

In  him  alone  ’twas  natural  to  please; 

His  motions  all  accompanied  with  grace, 

And  Paradise  was  opened  in  his  face.” 

Now  I have  to  tell  of  what  happened  to  me — of  all  people 
in  the  world,  to  me — the  most  insignificant  person  in  the  whole 
crowd.  It  chanced  that  as  the  duke  came  near  the  spot  be- 
side the  cross  where  we  were  standing,  the  press  in  front 
obliged  him  to  stop.  He  looked  about  him  while  he  waited, 
smiling  still  and  bowing  to  the  people.  Presently  his  eyes  fell 
upon  me,  and  he  whispered  a gentleman  who  rode  beside  him, 
yet  a little  in  the  rear.  This  gentleman  laughed,  and  dis- 
mounted. What  was  my  confusion,  when  he  advanced  toward 
me  and  spoke  to  me! 

“ Madame,”  he  said — calling  me  “ madame  ” — “ his  grace 
would  say  one  word  to  you,  with  permission  of  your  friends.” 

“ Go  with  this  gentleman,  child,”  said  Sir  Christopher, 
laughing.  Everybody  laughs — I know  not  why — when  a girl 
is  led  out  to  be  kissed. 

“ Fair  White  Rose  of  Somerset,”  said  his  grace — 'twas  the 
most  musical  voice  in  the  world,  and  the  softest — 46  fair  White 
Rose” — he  repeated  the  words — 44  let  me  be  assured  of  the 


58 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


welcome  of  Ilchester  by  a kiss  from  your  sweet  lips,  which  I 
will  return  in  token  of  my  gratitude.” 

All  the  people  who  heard  these  words  shouted  as  if  they 
would  burst  themselves  asunder.  And  the  gentleman  who 
had  led  me  forth  lifted  me  so  that  my  foot  rested  on  the 
duke's  foot,  while  his  grace  laid  his  arm  tenderly  round  my 
waist  and  kissed  me  twice. 

“ Sweet  child,”  he  said,  “ what  is  thy  name?” 

“ By  your  grace's  leave,”  I said,  the  words  being  very 
strange,  “ I am  the  daughter  of  Doctor  Comfort  Bykin,  an 
ejected  minister.  I have  come  with  Sir  Christopher  Challis, 
who  stands  yonder.” 

“ Sir  Christopher!”  said  the  duke,  as  if  surprised.  “ Let 
me  shake  hands  with  Sir  Christopher.  1 take  it  kindly.  Sir 
Christopher,  that  you  have  so  far  honored  me.”  So  he  gave 
the  old  man,  who  stepped  forward  bareheaded,  his  hand,  still 
holding  me  by  the  waist.  “ I pray  that  we  may  meet  again. 
Sir  Christopher,  and  that  before  long."  Then  he  drew  a gold 
ring,  set  with  emeralds,  from  his  forefinger,  and  placed  it  upon 
mine,  and  kissed  me  again,  and,  then  suffered  me  to  be  lifted 
down.  And  you  may  be  sure  that  it  was  with  red  cheeks  that 
I took  my  place  among  my  friends.  Yet  Sir  Christopher  was 
pleased  at  the  notice  taken  of  him  by  the  duke,  and  my  father 
was  not  displeased  at  the  part  I had  been  made  to  play. 

When  the  duke  had  ridden  through  the  town,  many  of  the 
people  followed  after,  as  far  as  White  Lackington,  which  is 
close  to  Ilminster.  So  many  were  they  that  they  took  down  a 
great  piece  of  the  park  paling  to  admit  them  all;  and  there, 
under  a Spanish  chestnut  tree,  the  duke  drank  to  the  health  of 
all  the  people. 

At  Ilminster,  whither  he  rode  a few  days  later,  at  Chard,  at 
Ford  Abbey,  at  Whyton,  and  at  Exeter — wherever  he  went — 
he  was  received  with  the  same  shouts  and  acclamations.  It  is 
no  wonder,  therefore,  that  he  should  believe  a few  years  later 
that  those  people  would  follow  him  when  he  drew  the  sword 
for  the  Protestant  religion. 

One  thing  is  certain — that  in  the  West  of  England,  from  the 
progress  of  Monmouth  to  the  Rebellion,  there  was  uneasiness, 
with  an  anxious  looking  forward  to  troubled  times.  The  peo- 
ple of  Taunton  kept  as  a day  of  holiday  and  thanksgiving  the 
anniversary  of  the  raising  of  Charles's  siege.  When  the  mayor, 
in  1683,  tried  to  stop  the  celebration,  they  nearly  stoned  him 
to  death.  After  this.  Sir  George  Jeffreys,  afterward  Lord 
Jeffreys,  who  took  the  spring  circuit  in  1684,  was  called  upon 
to  report  on  the  loyalty  of  the  West  country.  He  reported 


FOR  FAITH  AMD  FREEDOM. 


59 


that  the  gentry  were  loyal  and  well  disposed.  But  he  knew 
not  the  mind  of  the  weavers  and  spinners  of  the  country. 

It  was  this  progress,  the  sight  of  the  duke's  sweet  face,  his 
flattery  of  me,  and  his  soft  words  and  the  ring  he  gave  me, 
which  made  me  from  that  moment  such  a partisan  of  his  cause 
as  only  a woman  can  be.  Women  can  not  fight,  but  they  can 
feel;  and  they  can  not  only  ardently  desire,  but  they  can  de- 
spise and  contemn  those  who  think  otherwise.  I can  not  say 
that  it  was  I who  persuded  our  boys  five  years  later  to  join  the 
duke;  but  I can  truly  say  that  I did  and  said  all  that  a wom- 
an can;  that  I rejoiced  when  they  did  so;  and  that  I should 
never  have,  forgiven  Robin  had  he  joined  the  forces  of  the 
Papist  king. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WITH  THE  ELDERS. 

So  we  went  home  again,  all  well  pleased,  and  I holding  the 
duke's  ring  tight,  I promise  you.  It  was  a most  beautiful  ring 
when  I came  to  look  at  it:  a great  emerald  was  in  the  midst  of 
it,  with  little  pearls  and  emeralds  set  alternately  around  it. 
Never  was  such  a grand  gift  to  so  humble  a person.  I tied  it 
to  a black  ribbon  and  put  it  in  the  box  which  held  my  clothes. 
But  sometimes  I could  not  forbear  the  pleasure  of  wearing  it 
round  my  neck,  secretly;  not  for  the  joy  of  possessing  the  ring 
so  much  as  for  remembering  the  lovely  face  and  the  gracious 
words  of  the  giver. 

At  that  time  I was  in  my  sixteenth  year,  but  well  grown  for 
my  age.  Like  my  father,  I am  above  the  common  stature  of 
women.  We  continued  for  more  than  four  years  longer  to 
live  without  the  company  of  the  boys,  which  caused  me  to  be 
much  in  the  society  of  my  elders,  and  as  much  at  the  Manor 
House  and  the  rectory  as  at  home.  At  the  former  place  Sir 
Christopher  loved  to  have  me  with  him  all  day  long  if  my 
mother  would  suffer  it;  when  he  walked  abroad  I must  walk 
with  him;  when  he  walked  in  his  garden  I must  be  at  his  side; 
when  he  awoke  after  his  afternoon  sleep  he  liked  to  see  me  sit- 
ting ready  to  talk  to  him.  I must  play  to  him  and  sing  to 
him;  or  I must  bring  out  the  backgammon  board;  or  I must 
read  the  last  letters  from  Robin  and  Humphrey.  Life  is  dull 
for  an  old  man  whose  friends  are  mostly  dead,  unless  he  have 
the  company  of  the  young.  So  David  in  his  old  age  took  to 
himself  a young  wife,  when,  instead,  he  should  have  comfort- 


60 


FOR  FAITH  AMD  FREEDOM. 


ed  his  heart  with  the  play  and  prattle  of  his  grandchildren — 
of  whom,  I suppose,  there  must  have  been  many  families.' 

Now,  as  I was  so  much  with  his  honor,  I had  much  talk  with 
him  upon  things  on  which  wise  and  ancient  men  do  not  often 
converse  with  girls,  and  I was  often  present  when  he  dis- 
coursed with  my  father  or  with  his  son-in-law,  the  rector,  on 
high  and  serious  matters.  It  was  a time  of  great  anxiety  and 
uncertainty.  There  were  great  pope  burnings  in  the  country, 
and  when  some  were  put  in  pillory  for  riot  at  these  bonfires 
not  a hand  was  lifted  against  them.  They  had  one  at  Sher- 
borne on  November  17th,  the  anniversary  of  Queen  Elizabeth's 
coronation  day,  instead  of  November  5th.  Boys  went  about 
the  streets  asking  for  half-pence  and  singing: 

“ Up  with  the  ladder, 

And  down  with  the  rope; 

Give  us  a penny 
To  burn  the  old  Pope.” 

There  were  riots  in  Taunton,  where  the  High  Church  party 
burned  the  pulpit  of  a meeting-house;  people  went  about  open- 
ly saying  that  the  Roundheads  would  soon  come  back  again. 
From  Robin  we  heard  of  the  popish  plots  and  the  flight  of  the 
Duke  of  York,  and  afterward  of  Monmouth's  disgrace  and 
exile.  At  all  the  market-towns  where  men  gathered  together 
they  talked  of  these  things,  and  many  whispered  together — a 
thing  which  Sir  Christopher  loved  not,  because  it  spoke  of  con- 
spiracies and  secret  plots,  whereas  he  was  for  bold  declaration 
of  conscience. 

In  short,  it  was  an  anxious  time,  and  everybody  understood 
that  serious  things  would  happen  should  the  king  die.  They 
were  not  wanting,  besides/  omens  of  coming  ills — if  you  ac- 
cept such  things  as  omens  or  warnings.  To  Taunton  (after- 
ward the  town  most  affected  by  the  rebellion)  a plain  warning 
was  vouchsafed  by  the  rumbling  and  thundering  and  shaking 
of  the  earth  itself,  so  that  dishes  were  knocked  down  and  cups 
broken,  and  plaster  shaken  off  the  walls  of  houses.  And  once 
(this  did  I myself  see  with  my  own  eyes)  the  sun  rose  with  four 
other  suns  for  companions — a most  terrifying  sight,  though 
Mr.  Boscorel,  who  spoke  learnedly  on  omens,  had  an  explana- 
tion of  this  miracle,  which  he  said  was  due  to  natural  causes 
alone.  And  at  lie  Brewers  there  was  a monstrous  birth  of 
two  girls  with  but  one  body  from  the  breast  downward;  their 
names  were  Aquila  and  Priscilla,  but  I believe  they  lived  only 
a short  time. 

I needs  must  tell  of  Mr.  Boscorel  because  he  was  a man  the 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


61 


like  of  whom  I have  never  since  beheld.  I believe  there  can 
be  few  men  such  as  he  was,  who  could  so  readily  exchange  the 
world  of  heat  and  argument  for  the  calm  and  dispassionate  air 
of  art  and  music.  Even  religion  (if  I may  venture  to  say  so) 
seemed  of  less  importance  to  him  than  art.  I have  said  that 
he  taught  me  to  play  upon  the  spinet.  Now  that  Humphrey 
was  gone,  he  desired  my  company  every  day,  in  order,  he  pre- 
tended, that  I might  grow  perfect  in  my  performance,  but  in 
reality  because  he  was  lonely  at  the  rectory,  and  found  pleas- 
ure in  my  company.  We  played  together — he  upon  the  vio- 
loncello and  I upon  the  spinet — such  music  as  he  chose.  It 
was  sometimes  grave  and  solemn  music,  such  as  Lullies 
“ Miserere  ” or  his  “ De  Profundis;”  sometimes  it  was  some 
part  of  a Roman  Catholic  mass:  then  was  my  soul  uplifted 
and  wafted  heavenward  by  the  chords,  which  seemed  prayer 
and  praise  fit  for  the  angels  to  harp  before  the  throne.  Some- 
times it  was  music  which  spoke  of  human  passions,  when  I 
would  be,  in  like  manner,  carried  out  of  myself.  My  master 
would  watch  not  only  my  execution,  commending  or  correct- 
ing, but  he  would  also  watch  the  effect  of  the  music  upon  my 
mind. 

“ We  are  ourselves,”  he  said,  “like  unto  the  instruments 
upon  which  we  play.  For  as  one  kind  of  instrument,  as  the 
drum,  produces  but  one  note;  and  another,  as  the  cymbals, 
but  a clashing  which  is  in  itself  discordant,  but  made  effective 
in  a band;  so  others  are,  like  the  most  delicate  and  sensitive 
violins — those  of  Cremona — capable  of  producing  the  finest 
music  that  the  soul  of  man  hath  ever  devised.  It  is  by  such 
music,  child,  that  some  of  us  mount  unto  heaven.  As  for  me, 
indeed,  I daily  feel  more  and  more  that  music  leadetli  the  soul 
upward,  and  that  as  regards  the  disputations  on  the  Word  of 
God,  the  letter  indeed  killeth,  but  the  spirit,  which  music 
helpeth  us  to  feel — the  spirit,  I say,  giveth  life.  ” He  sighed, 
and  drew  his  bow  gently  across  the  first  string  of  his  violon- 
cello. “ *Tis  a time  of  angry  argument.  The  Word  of  God 
is  thrown  from  one  to  the  other  as  a pebble  is  shot  from  a 
sling.  It  wearies  me.  In  this  room,  among  these  books  of 
music,  my  soul  finds  rest,  and  the  spiritual  part  of  me  is  lifted 
heavenward.  Humphrey  and  you,  my  dear,  alone  can  com- 
prehend this  saying.  Thou  hast  a mind  like  his,  to  feel  and 
understand  what  music  means.  Listen!”  Here  he  executed 
a piece  of  music  at  which  the  tears  rose  to  my  eyes.  “ That 
is  from  the  Romish  mass  which  we  are  taught  ignorantly  to 
despise.  My  child,  I am  indeed  no  Catholic,  and  I hold  that 
ours  is  the  purer  church,  yet  in  losing  the  mass  we  have  lost 


62 


FOE  FAITH  AND  FKEEDOM. 


the  great  music  with  which  the  Catholics  sustain  their  souls. 
Some  of  our  anthems,  truly,  are  good;  but  what  is  a single 
anthem,  finished  in  ten  minutes,  compared  with  a grand  mass 
which  lasts  three  hours  ?" 

Then  he  had  portfolios  filled  with  engravings,  which  he 
would  bring  forth  and  contemplate  with  a kind  of  rapture,  dis- 
coursing upon  the  engraver's  art  and  its  difficulties,  so  that  I 
should  not,  as  is  the  case  with  ignorant  persons,  suppose  that 
these  things  were  produced  without  much  training  and  skill. 
He  had  also  boxes  full  of  coins,  medals,  and  transparent  gems 
carved  most  delicately  with  heathen  gods  and  goddesses,  shep- 
herds and  swains,  after  the  ancient  fashion,  unclothed  and 
unashamed.  On  these  things  he  would  gaze  with  admiration 
which  he  tried  to  teach  'me,  but  could  not,  because  I can  not 
believe  that  we  may  without  blame  look  upon  such  figures. 
Nevertheless,  they  were  most  beautiful,  the  hands  and  faces 
and  the  very  hair  so  delicately  and  exquisitely  carved  that  you 
could  hardly  believe  it  possible.  And  he  talked  solemnly  and 
scholarly  of  these  gauds,  as  if  they  were  things  which  peculiarly 
deserved  the  attention  of  wise  and  learned  men.  Nay,  he 
would  be  even  lifted  out  of  himself  in  considering  them. 

“Child,"  he  said,  “we  know  not,  and  we  can  not  even 
guess,  the  wonders  of  art  that  in  heaven  we  shall  learn  to  ac- 
complish " — as  if  carving  and  painting  were  the  occupation  of 
angels! — “ or  the  miracles  of  beauty  and  of  dexterity  that  we 
shall  be  able  to  design  and  execute.  Here,  the  hand  is  clumsy 
and  the  brain  is  dull;  we  can  not  rise  above  ourselves;  we  are 
blind  to  the  beauty  with  which  the  Lord  hath  filled  the  earth 
for  the  solace  of  human  creatures.  Nay,  we  are  not  even  ten- 
der with  the  beauty  that  we  see  and  love.  We  suffer  maidens 
sweet  as  the  dreams  of  poets  to  waste  their  beauty  unpraised 
and  unsung.  I am  old,  child,  or  I would  praise  thee  in  im- 
mortal verse.  Much  I fear  that  thou  wilt  grow  old  without 
the  praise  of  sweet  numbers.  , Well,  there  is  no  doubt  more 
lasting  beauty  of  face  and  figure  hereafter  to  joy  the  souls  of 
the  elect.  And  thou  wilt  make  his  happiness  for  one  man  on 
earth.  Pray  Heaven,  sweet  child,  that  he  look  also  to  thine!" 

He  would  say  such  things  with  so  grand  an  air,  speaking  as 
if  his  words  should  command  respect,  and  with  so  kindly  an 
eye  and  a soft  smile,  while  he  gently  stroked  the  side  of  his 
nose,  which  was  long,  that  I was  always  carried  away  with  the 
authority  of  it,  and  not  till  after  I left  him  did  I begin  to  per- 
ceive that  my  father  would  certainly  never  allow  that  the  elect 
should  occupy  themselves  with  the  frivolous  pursuits  of  paint- 
ing and  the  fine  arts,  but  only  with  the  playing  of  their  harps 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


63 


and  the  singing  of  praises.  It  was  this  consideration  which 
caused  him  to  consent  that  his  daughter  should  learn  the 
spinet.  I did  not  tell  him  (God  forgive  me  for  the  deceit,  if 
there  was  any!)  that  we  sometimes  played  music  written  for 
the  mass;  nor  did  I repeat  what  Mr.  Boscorel  said  concerning 
art  and  the  flinging  about  of  the  Word  of  God,  because  my 
father  was  wholly  occupied  in  controversy,  and  his  principal,  if 
not  his  only,  weapon  was  the  Word  of  God. 

Another  pleasure  which  we  had  was  to  follow  Humphrey  in 
his  travels  by  the  aid  of  his  letters  and  a mappa  mundi , or 
atlas,  which  the  rector  possessed.  Then  I remember,  when 
we  heard  that  the  boys  were  about  to  ride  together  through 
France  from  Montpellier  to  Leyden  in  Holland,  we  had  on  the 
table  the  great  map  of  France.  There  were  many  drawings, 
coats  of  arms,  and  other  pretty  things  on  the  map. 

“ It  is  now,”  said  Mr.  Boscorel,  finding  out  the  place  he 
wanted,  and  keeping  his  forefinger  upon  it,  “ nearly  thirty 
years  since  I made  the  grand  tour,  being  then  governor  to  the 
young  Lord  Silchester;  who  afterward  died  of  the  plague  in 
London,  else  had  I been  now  a bishop,  who  am  forgotten  in 
this  little  place.  The  boys  will  ride,  I take  it,  bydihe  same 
road  which  we  took:  first,  because  it  is  the  high-road  and  the 
safest;  next,  because  it  is  the  best  provided  with  inns  and  rest- 
ing-places; and  lastly,  because  it  passes  through  the  best  part 
of  his  most  Christian  majesty's  dominions,  and  carries  the  trav- 
eler through  his  finest  and  most  stately  cities.  From  Mont- 
pellier they  will  ride — follow  my  finger,  child! — to  Nismes. 
Before  the  Revocation  it  was  a great  place  for  those  of  the  Re- 
formed religion,  and  a populous  town.  Here  they  will  not  fail 
to  visit  the  Roman  temple,  which  still  stands.  It  is  not,  in- 
deed, such  a noble  monument  as  one  may  see  in  Rome;  but  it 
is  in  good  preservation,  and  a fair  example  of  the  latter  style. 
They  will  also  visit  the  gre^t  amphitheater,  which  should  be 
cleared  of  the  mean  houses  which  are  now  built  up  within  it, 
and  so  exposed  in  all  its  vastness  to  the  admiration  of  the 
world.  After  seeing  these  things  they  will  direct  their  way 
across  a desolate  piece  of  country  to  Avignon,  passing  on  the 
way  the  ancient  Roman  aqueduct  called  the  Pont  de  Gard.  At 
Avignon  they  will  admire  the  many  churches  and  the  walls, 
and  will  not  fail  to  visit  the  palace  of  the  popes  during  the 
Great  Schism.  Thence  they  will  ride  northward,  unless  they 
wish  first  to  see  the  Roman  remains  at  Arles.  Thence  will 
they  proceed  up  the  valley  of  the  Rhone,  through  many  stately 
towns,  till  they  come  to  Lyons,  where,  doubtless,  they  will  so- 
journ for  a few  days.  Next  they  will  journey  through  the  rich 


64 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


country  of  Burgundy,  and  from  the  ancient  town  of  Dijon  will 
reach  Paris  through  the  city  of  Fontainebleau.  On  the  way 
they  will  see  many  windows,  noble  houses,  and  castles,  with 
rich  towns  and  splendid  churches.  In  no  country  are  there 
more  splendid  churches,  built  in  the  Gothic  style,  which  we 
have  now  forgotten.  Some  of  them,  alas!  have  been  defaced 
in  the  wars  (so  called  of  religion),  where,  as  happened  also  to 
us,  the  delicate  carved  work,  the  scrolls  and  flowers  and  statues, 
were  destroyed,  and  the  painted  windows  broken.  Alas  that 
men  should  refuse  to  suffer  Art  to  become  the  minister  and 
handmaid  of  Religion!  Yet  in  the  first  and  most  glorious 
temple  in  which  the  glory  of  the  Lord  was  visibly  present, 
there  were  carved  and  graven  lilies,  with  lions,  oxen,  chariots, 
cherubim,  palm-trees,  and  pomegranates.” 

He  closed  his  atlas  and  sat  down. 

“ Child,”  he  said,  meditating.  “ For  a scholar,  in  his 
youth,  there  is  no  pleasure  comparable  with  the  pleasure  of 
traveling  in  strange  countries,  among  the  monuments  of  an- 
cient days.  My  own  son  did  never,  to  my  sorrow,  desire  the 
pleasant  paths  of  learning,  and  did  never  show  any  love  for 
the  arts,  in  which  I have  always  taken  so  great  delight.  He 
desireth  rather  the  companionship  of  men;  he  loveth  to  drink 
and  sing;  and  he  nourisheth  a huge  ambition.  *Tis  best  that 
we  are  not  all  alike.  Humphrey  should  have  been  my  son. 
Forget  not,  my  child,  that  he  hath  desired  to  be  remembered 
to  thee  in  every  letter  which  he  hath  written.  ” 

If  the  rector  spoke  much  of  Humphrey,  madame  made 
amends  by  talking  continually  of  Robin,  and  of  the  great 
things  that  he  would  do  when  he  returned  home.  Justice  of 
the  peace,  that  he  would  certainly  be  made;  captain  first  and 
afterward  colonel  in  the  Somerset  Militia,  that  also  should  he 
be;  knight  of  the  shire,  if  he  were  ambitious — but  that  I knew 
he  would  never  be;  high  sheriff  of  the  county,  if  his  slender 
means  permitted — for  the  estate  was  not  worth  more  than  six 
or  seven  hundred  pounds  a year.  Perhaps  he  would  marry 
an  heiress;  it  would  be  greatly  to  the  advantage  of  the  family 
if  an  heiress  were  to  come  into  it  with  broad  acres  of  her  own; 
but  she  was  not  a woman  who  would  seek  to  control  her  son  in 
the  matter  of  his  affections,  and  if  he  chose  a girl  with  no  fort- 
une to  her  back,  if  she  was  a good  girl  and  pious,  madame 
would  never  say  him  nay.  And  he  would  soon  return.  The 
boy  had  been  at  Oxford  and  next  in  London,  learning  law, 
such  as  justices  require.  He  was  now  with  Humphrey  at  the 
University  of  Leyden,  doubtless  learning  more  law. 

“ My  dear,”  said  madame,  “ we  want  him  home.  His 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


65 


grandfather  groweth  old,  though  still,  thank  God,  in  the  full 
possession  of  his  faculties.  Yet  a young  man’s  presence  is 
needed.  I trust  and  pray  that  he  will  return  as  he  went,  inno- 
cent, in  spite  of  the  many  temptations  of  the  wicked  city. 
And,  oh,  child — what  if  he  should  have  lost  his  heart  to  some 
designing  city  hussy  !” 

He  came — as  ye  shall  hear  immediately — Robin  came  home. 
Would  to  God  that  he  had  waited,  if  only  for  a single  month! 
Had  he  not  come,  all  our  afflictions  would  have  been  spared 
us!  Had  he  not  come,  that  good  old  man.  Sir  Christopher — 
but  it  is  vain  to  imagine  what  might  have  been.  We  are  in 
the  hands  of  the  Lord;  nothing  that  happens  to  us  is  permitted 
but  bj  him,  and  for  some  wise  purpose  was  Sir  Christopher  in 
his  old  age — alas!  why  should  I anticipate  what  I have  to 
narrate? 


CHAPTER  X. 

LE  ROY  EST  MORT. 

In  February  of  the  year  1685  King  Charles  II.  died. 

Sir  Christopher  himself  brought  us  the  news  from  Sherborne, 
whither  he  had  gone,  as  was  his  wont,  to  the  weekly  ordinary. 
He  clattered  up  the  lane  on  his  cob,  and  halted  at  our  gate. 

“ Call  thy  father,  child.  Give  you  good-day,  Madame  Eykin. 
Will  your  husband  leave  his  books  and  come  forth  for  a mo- 
ment? Tell  him  I have  news.” 

My  father  rose  and  obeyed.  His  gown  was  in  rags;  his  feet 
were  clad  in  cloth  shoon,  which  I worked  for  him;  his  cheek 
was  wasted;  but  his  eye  was  keen.  He  was  lean  and  tall;  his 
hair  was  as  white  as  Sir  Christopher’s,  though  he  was  full 
twenty  years  younger. 

“ Friend  and  gossip,”  said  Sir  Christopher,  “ the  king  is 
dead.  ” 

“ Is  Charles  Stuart  dead?”  my  father  replied.  “ He  cum- 
bered the  earth  too  long.  For  five-and-twenty  years  hath  he 
persecuted  the  saints.  Also  he  hath  burned  incense  after  the 
abomination  of  the  heathen.  Let  his  lot  be  as  the  lot  of 
Ahaz.” 

“ Nay;  he  is  buried  by  this  time.  His  brother,  the  Duke' 
of  York,  hath  been  proclaimed  king.” 

“ James  the  Papist.  It  is  as  though  Manasseh  should  suc- 
ceed to  Ahaz;  and  after  him  Jehoiakim.  ” 

“ Yet  the  bells  will  ring,  and  we  shall  pray  for  the  king; 
and  wise  men,  friend  Eykin,  will  do  well  to  keep  silence.” 


FOH  FAITH  AKD 


“ There  is  a time  to  speak  and  a time  to  keep  silence.  It 
may  be  that  the  time  is  at  hand  when  the  godly  man  must 
stretch  forth  his  hand  to  tear  down  the  Scarlet  Woman, 
though  she  slay  him  in  the  attempt.” 

“ It  may  be  so,  friend  Eykin;  yet  stretch  not  forth  thine 
hand  until  thou  art  well  assured  of  the  Divine  command. 
The  king  is  dead.  Now  will  my  son-in-law  ring  out  the  bells 
for  the  new  king,  and  we  shall  pray  for  him  as  we  prayed  for 
his  brother.  It  is  our  duty  to  pray  for  all  in  authority,  though 
to  the  prayers  of  a whole  nation  there  seemeth,  so  far  as  human 
reason  can  perceive,  no  answer.” 

“ I for  one  will  pray  no  more  for  a king  who  is  a Papist. 
Rather  will  I pray  daily  for  his  overthrow.  ” 

“ King  Charles  is  said  to  have  received  a priest  before  he 
died;  yet  it  is  worse  that  the  king  should  be  an  open  than  a 
secret  Catholic.  Let  us  be  patient.  Doctor  Eykin,  and  await 
the  time.” 

So  he  rode  up  the  village,  and  presently  the  bells  were  set 
a-ringing,  and  they  clashed  as  joyously,  echoing  around  the 
Corton  Hills  as  if  the  accession  of  King  James  II.  was  the  only 
thing  wanted  to  make  the  nation  prosperous,  happy,  and  re- 
ligious. 

My  father  stood  at  the  gate  after  Sir  Christopher  left  him. 
The  wind  was  cold,  and  the  twilight  was  falling,  and  his  cas- 
sock was  thin,  but  he  remained  there  motionless  until  my 
mother  went  out  and  drew  him  back  to  the  house  by  the  arm. 
He  went  into  his  own  room,  but  he  read  no  more  that  day. 

In  the  evening  he  came  forth  and  sat  with  us,  and  while  I 
sat  sewing,  my  mother  spinning  by  the  light  of  the  fire,  he  dis- 
coursed, which  was  unusual  with  him,  upon  things  and  peoples 
and  the  best  form  of  government,  which  he  held  to  be  a com- 
monwealth, with  a strong  man  for  president.  But  he  was  to 
hold  his  power  from  the  people,  and  was  to  lay  it  down  fre- 
quently, lest  he  should  in  turn  be  tempted  to  become  a king. 
And  if  he  were  to  fall  away  from  righteousness,  or  to  live  in 
open  sin,  or  to  be  a merry-maker,  or  to  suffer  his  country  to 
fall  from  a high  place  among  the  nations,  he  was  to  be  dis- 
placed, and  be  forced  to  retire.  As  for  the  man  Charles,  now 
dead,  he  would  become,  my  father  said,  an  example  to  all  fut- 
ure ages,  and  a warning  of  what  may  happen  when  the  doc- 
trine of  Divine  Right  is  generally  accepted  and  acted  upon,  the 
king  himself  being  not  so  much  blamed  by  him  as  the  practice 
of  hereditary  rule,  which  caused  him  to  be  seated  upon  the 
throne,  when  his  true  place,  my  father  said,  was  among  the 
lackeys  and  varlets  of  the  palace.  “ His  brother  James,”  he 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


67 


added,  “ had  now  an  opportunity  which  occurred  to  few — for 
he  might  become  another  Josiah.  But  I think  he  will  neg- 
lect that  opportunity/*  he  concluded;  “yea,  even  if  Hilkiah 
the  priest  were  to  bring  him  a message  from  Huldah  the 
prophetess;  for  he  doth  belong  to  a family  which,  by  the 
Divine  displeasure,  can  never  perceive  the  truth.  Let  us  now 
read  the  Word,  and  wrestle  with  the  Lord  in  prayer.** 

Next  we  heard  that  loyal  addresses  were  pouring  in  from  all 
quarters  congratulating  the  king,  and  promising  most  sub- 
missive obedience.  One  would  have  thought  that  the  people 
were  rejoiced  at  the  succession  of  a Roman  Catholic;  it  was 
said  that  the  king  had  promised  liberty  of  conscience  unto  all, 
that  he  claimed  that  liberty  for  himself,  and  that  he  went  to 
mass  daily  and  openly. 

But  many  there  were  who  foresaw  trouble.  Unfortunately, 
one  of  them  was  Sir  Christopher,  who  spoke  his  mind  at  all 
times  too  fiercely  for  his  safety.  Mr.  Boscorel,  also,  was  of 
opinion  that  civil  war  would  speedily  ensue. 

“The  king*s  friends,**  he  said,  “may  for  a time  buy  the 
support  of  the  Non-conformists,  and  make  a show  of  religious 
liberty.  Thus  may  they  govern  for  awhile.  But  it  is  not  in 
the  nature  of  the  Roman  Catholic  priest  to  countenance  re- 
ligious liberty,  or  to  sit  down  contented  with  less  than  all  the 

gie.  They  must  forever  scheme  and  intrigue  for  more  power. 

leligious  liberty?  It  means  to  them  the  eternal  damnation  of 
those  who  hold  themselves  free  to  think  for  themselves.  They 
would  be  less  than  human  if  they  did  not  try  to  save  the  souls 
of  the  people  by  docking  their  freedom.  They  must  make 
this  country  even  as  Spain  or  Italy.  Is  it  to  be  believed  that 
they  will  suffer  the  Church  to  retain  her  revenues,  or  the  uni- 
versities to  remain  out  of  their  control?  Nay,  will  they  allow 
the  grammar-schools  to  be  in  the  hands  of  Protestants?  Never! 
The  next  generation  will  be  wholly  Catholic,  unless  the  present 
generation  send  king  and  priests  packing.  ** 

These  were  treasonable  words,  but  they  were  uttered  in  the 
hall  of  the  Manor  House  with  no  other  listeners  than  Sir 
Christopher  and  the  rector. 

“Seeing  these  things,  son-in-law,**  said  Sir  Christopher, 
“ what  becomes  of  Right  Divine?  Where  is  the  duty  of  non- 
resistance?** 

“The  doctrine  of  Right  Divine,**  said  Mr.  Boscorel,  “in- 
cludes the  Divine  institution  of  a monarchy,  which,  I confess, 
is  manifestly  untenable,  because  the  Lord  granted  a king  to 
the  people  only  because  they  clamored  for  one.  Also,  had  the 
institution  been  of  Divine  foundation,  the  Jews  would  never 


68 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


have  been  allowed  to  live  under  the  rule  of  judges,  tetrarehs, 
and  Roman  governors. ** 

“ You  have  not  always  spoken  so  plainly/*  said  Sir  Christo- 
pher. 

“ Nay;  why  be  always  proclaiming  to  the  world  your 
thoughts  and  opinions?  Besides,  even  if  the  doctrine  of  non- 
resistance  were  sound,  there  may  be  cases  in  which  just  laws 
may  be  justly  set  aside.  I say  not  that  this  is  one  as  yet.  But 
if  there  were  danger  of  the  ancient  superstitions  being  thrust 
upon  us  to  the  destruction  of  our  souls,  I say  not.  Nay;  if  a 
starving  man  take  a loaf  of  bread,  there  being  no  other  way 
possible  to  save  his  life,  one  would  not,  therefore,  hold  him  a 
thief.  Yet  the  law  remains.  ** 

“ Shall  the  blood  which  hath  been  poured  out  for  the  cause 
of  liberty  prove  to  be  shed  in  vain?**  asked  Sir  Christopher. 

“ Why,  sir,**  said  the  rector,  “ the  same  question  might  be 
asked  in*  France,  where  the  Protestants  fought  longer  and 
against  greater  odds  than  we  in  this  country.  Yet  the  blood 
of  those  martyrs  hath  been  shed  in  vain;  the  Church  of  Rome 
is  there  the  conqueror  indeed.  It  is  laid  upon  the  Protestants, 
even  upon  us,  who  hold  that  we  are  a true  branch  of  the  an- 
cient Apostolic  Church,  to  defend  ourselves  continually  against 
an  enemy  who  is  always  at  unity,  always  guided  by  one  man, 
always  knows  what  he  wants,  and  is  always  working  to  get  it. 
We,  on  the  other  hand,  do  not  know  our  own  minds,  and  must 
forever  be  quarreling  among  ourselves.  Nevertheless,  the 
heart  of  the  country  is  Protestant;  and  sooner  or  later  the  case 
of  conscience  may  arise  whether — the  law  remaining  unchanged 
— we  may  not  blamelessly  break  the  law?** 

That  case  of  conscience  was  not  yet  ripe  for  consideration. 
There  needed  first  many  things — including  the  martyrdom  of 
saints  and  innocent  men  and  poor,  ignorant  rustics — before 
the  country  roused  herself  once  more  to  seize  her  liberties. 
Then  as  to  that  poor  doctrine  of  Divine  Right,  they  all  made 
a mouthful  of  it,  except  only  a small  and  harmless  band  of 
non- jurors. 

At  the  outset,  whatever  the  opinions  of  the  people — who 
could  not  have  been  made  to  rise  as  one  man — the  gentry  re- 
mained loyal.  Above  all  things,  they  dreaded  another  civil 
war. 

“ We  must  fain  accept  the  king*s  professions,**  said  the  rec- 
tor. “ If  we  have  misgivings,  let  us  disguise  them.  Let  us 
rather  nourish  the  hope  that  they  are  honestly  meant,  and  let 
ps  wait.  England  will  not  become  another  Spain  in  a single 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM.  69 

day.  Let  us  wait.  The  stake  is  not  yet  set  up  in  Smithfield, 
and  the  Inquisition  is  not  yet  established  in  the  country. " 

It  was  in  this  temper  that  the  king's  accession  found  Sir 
Christopher.  Afterward  he  was  accused  of  having  harbored 
designs  against  the  king  from  the  beginning.  That,  indeed, 
was  not  the  case.  He  had  no  thought  of  entering  into  any 
such  enterprise.  Yet  he  never  doubted  that  in  the  end  there 
would  be  an  uprising  against  the  rule  of  the  priests.  Nor  did 
he  doubt  that  the  king  would  be  pushed  on  by  his  advisers  to 
one  pretension  after  another  for  the  advancement  of  his  own 
prerogative  and  the  displacement  of  the  Protestant  Church. 
Nay,  he  openly  predicted  that  there  would  be  such  attempts; 
and  he  maintained — such  was  his  wisdom! — that,  in  the  long- 
run,  the  Protestant  faith  would  be  established  upon  a surer 
foundation  than  ever.  But  as  for  conspiring,  or  being  cog- 
nizant of  any  conspiracy,  that  was  untrue.  Why,  he  was  at 
this  time  seventy-five  years  of  age — a time  when  such  men  as 
Sir  Christopher  have  continually  before  their  eyes  death  and 
the  judgment. 

As  for  my  father,  perhaps  I am  wrong,  but  in  the  daily 
prayers  of  night  and  morning,  and  in  the  “ Grace  before 
Meat,"  he  seemed  to  find  a freer  utterance,  and  to  wrestle 
more  vehemently  than  was  his  wont  on  the  subject  of  the  Scar- 
let Woman,  offering  himself  as  a willing  martyr  and  confessor, 
if  by  the  shedding  of  his  blood  the  great  day  of  her  final  over- 
throw might  be  advanced;  yet  always  humble,  not  daring  to 
think  of  himself  as  anything  but  an  instrument  to  do  the  will 
of  his  Master.  In  the  end,  his  death  truly  helped,  with  others, 
to  bring  a Protestant  king  to  the  throne  of  these  isles.  And 
since  we  knew  him  to  be  so  deep  a scholar,  always  reading  and 
learning,  and  in  no  sense  a man  of  activity,  the  thing  which 
he  presently  did  amazed  us  all.  Yet  he  ought  to  have  known 
that  one  who  is  under  the  Divine  command  to  preach  the  Word 
of  God,  and  hath  been  silenced  by  man  for  more  than  twenty 
years,  so  that  the  strength  of  his  manhood  hath  run  to  waste 
and  is  lost  (it  is  a most  terrible  and  grievous  thing  for  a man 
to  be  condemned  to  idleness!),  may  become  like  unto  one  of 
those  burning  mountains  of  which  we  sometimes  read  in  books 
of  voyages.  In  him,  as  in  them,  the  inner  fires  rage  and  burn, 
growing  ever  stronger  and  fiercer,  until  presently  they  rent 
asunder  the  sides  of  the  mountain  and  burst  forth,  pouring 
down  liquid  fire  over  the  unhappy  valleys  beneath,  with  show- 
ers of  red-hot  ashes  to  destroy  and  cover  up  the  smiling  home- 
steads and  the  fertile  meadows. 

It  is  true  that  my  father  chafed  continually  at  the  inaction 


70  FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 

forced  upon  him,  but  his  impatience  was  never  so  strong  as  at 
this  time,  namely,  after  the  accession  of  King  James.  It 
drove  him  from  his  books  and  out  into  the  fields  and  lanes, 
where  he  walked  to  and  fro,  waving  his  long  arms,  and  some- 
times crying  aloud  and  shouting  in  the  woods,  as  if  compelled 
to  cry  out  in  order  to  quench  some  raging  fever  or  heat  of  his 
mind. 

About  this  time,  too,  I remember  they  began  to  talk  of  the 
exiles  who  were  staying  in  Holland.  The  Duke  of  Monmouth 
was  there  with  the  Earl  of  Argyle,  and  with  them  a company 
of  firebrands  eager  to  get  back  to  England  and  their  property. 

I am  certain  now  that  my  father  (and  perhaps,  through  his 
information.  Sir  Christopher  also)  was  kept  acquainted  with 
the  plots  and  designs  that  were  carried  on  in  the  Low  Coun- 
tries; nay,  I am  also  certain  that  his  informant  was  none  other 
than  Humphrey,  who  was  still  in  Leyden.  I have  seen  a let- 
ter from  him,  written,  as  I now  understand,  in  a kind  of  alle- 
gory or  parable,  in  which  one  thing  was  said  and  another 
meant.  Thus  he  pretends  to  speak  of  Dutch  gardening.  “ The 
gardeners/ 9 he  says,  66  take  infinite  pains  that  their  secrets 
shall  not -be  learned  or  disclosed.  I know,  however,  that  a cer- 
tain blue  tulip,  much  desired  by  many  gardeners  in  England, 
will  be  taken  across  the  water  this  year,  and  I hope  that  by 
next  year  the  precious  bulb  may  be  fully  planted  in  English 
soil.  The  preparation  of  the  soil  necessary  for  the  favorable 
reception  of  the  bulb  is  well  known  to  you,  and  you  will  under- 
stand how  to  mix  your  soil,  and  to  add  manure,  and  so  forth. 
I myself  expect  to  finish  what  I have  to  do  in  a few  weeks, 
when  I shall  cross  to  London,  and  so  ride  westward,  and  hope 
to  pay  my  respects  to  my  revered  tutor  in  the  month  of  June 
next.  It  may  be  that  I shall  come  with  the  tulip,  but  that  is 
not  certain.  Many  messages  have  been  received  offering  large 
sums  of  money  for  the  bulb,  so  that  it  is  hoped  that  the  Dutch 
gardeners  will  let  it  go.  From  H.  C. 99 

The  tulip,  you  see,  was  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  and  the 
Dutch  gardeners  were  the  Scotch  and  English  exiles  then  in 
Holland,  and  the  English  gardeners  were  the  duke's  friends, 
and  H.  C.  was  Humphrey  Challis. 

I think  that  Sir  Christopher  must  have  known  of  this  cor- 
respondence, because  I now  remember  that  my  father  would 
sit  with  him  for  many  hours  looking  at  a map  of  England,  and 
had  been  conversing  earnestly  and  making  notes  in  a book. 
These  notes  he  made  in  the  Arabic  character,  which  no  one 
but  himself  could  read;  I therefore  suppose  that  he  was  esti- 
mating the  number  of  Non-conformists  who  might  be  disposed 


FOR  FAITH  A HD  FREEDOM.  71 

to  aid  in  such  an  enterprise  as  Humphrey’s  “ gardeners  ” were 
contemplating. 

Robin,  who  certainly  was  no  conspirator,  also  wrote  a letter 
from  Leyden  about  this  time,  saying  that  something  was  ex- 
pected, nobody  knew  what,  but  that  the  exiles  were  meeting 
constantly,  as  if  something  was  brewing. 

It  was  about  the  first  week  of  J une  that  the  news  came  to  us 
of  Lord  Argyle’s  landing.  This  was  the  beginning.  After 
that,  as  you  will  hear,  the  news  came  thick  and  fast — every 
day  something  fresh,  and  something  to  quicken  the  most  slug- 
gish pulse.  To  me,  at  least,  it  seemed  as  if  the  breath  of  God 
Himself  was  poured  out  upon  the  country,  and  that  the  people 
were  everywhere  resolved  to  banish  the  accursed  thing  from 
their  midst.  Alas!  that  simple  country  maid  was  deceived. 
The  accursed  thing  was  to  be  driven  forth,  but  not  yet.  The 
country  party  hated  the  pope,  but  they  dreaded  civil  war — 
and  indeed  there  is  hardly  any  excuse  for  that  most  dreadful 
scourge,  except  the  salvation  of  the  soul  and  the  safe-guarding 
of  liberties.  They  would  gladly  welcome  a rising,  but  it  must 
be  general  and  universal.  They  had  for  five-and-twenty  years 
been  taught  the  wickedness  of  rebellion,  and  now  there  was  no 
way  to  secure  the  Protestant  faith  except  by  rebellion.  Un- 
happily, the  rebellion  began  before  the  country  gentlemen 
were  ready  to  begin. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

BEFORE  THE  STORM. 

Before  the  storm  breaks  there  sometimes  falls  upon  the 
earth  a brief  time  when  the  sun  shines  in  splendor  from  a 
clear  sky,  the  air  is  balmy  and  delightsome,  the  birds  sing  in 
the  coppice,  and  the  innocent  lambs  leap  in  the  meadows. 
Then,  suddenly,  black  clouds  gather  from  the  north;  the  wind 
blows  cold;  in  a minute  the  sky  is  black;  the  lightnings  flash, 
the  thunders  roll,  the  wind  roars,  the  hail  beats  down  and 
strips  the  orchard  of  its  promise,  and  silences  the  birds  cower- 
ing in  the  branches,  and  drives  the  trembling  sheep  to  take 
shelter  in  the  hedges. 

This  was  to  be  my  case.  You  shall  understand  how  for  a 
single  day — it  was  no  more — I was  the  happiest  girl  in  all  the 
world. 

I may  without  any  shame  confess  that  I have  always  loved 
Robin  from  my  earliest  childhood.  That  was  no  great  won- 
der, seeing  what  manner  of  boy  he  was,  and  how  he  was  always 


n 


FOR  FAITH  AHt>  FREEDOM. 


kind  and  thoughtful  for  me.  We  were  at  first  only  brother 
and  -sister  together,  which  is  natural  and  reasonable  when 
children  grow  up  together;  nor  can  I tell  when  or  how  we 
ceased  to  be  brother  and  sister,  save  that  it  may  have  been 
when  Robin  kissed  me  so  tenderly  at  parting,  and  told  me 
that  he  should  always  love  me.  I do  not  think  that  brothers 
do  generally  protest  love  and  promise  continual  affection. 
Barnaby  certainly  never  declared  his  love  for  me,  nor  did  he 
ever  promise  to  love  me  all  his  life.  Perhaps,  had  he  re- 
mained longer,  he  might  have  become  as  tender  as  he  was 
good-hearted,  but  I think  that  tenderness  toward  a sister  is 
not  in  the  nature  of  a boy.  I loved  Robin,  and  I loved 
Humphrey,  both  as  if  they  were  brothers,  but  one  of  them 
ceased  to  be  my  brother,  while  the  other,  in  consequence,  re- 
mained my  brother  always. 

A girl  may  be  ignorant  of  the  world  as  I was,  and  of  lovers 
and  their  ways  as  I was,  and  yet  she  can  not  grow  from  a 
child  to  a woman  without  knowing  that  when  a young  man 
who  hath  promised  to  love  her  always  speaks  of  her  in  every 
letter  he  means  more  than  common  brotherly  love.  Nor  can 
any  woman  be  indifferent  to  a man  who  thus  regards  her;  nor 
can  she  think  upon  love  without  the  desire  of  being  herself 
loved.  Truly,  I had  always  before  my  eyes  the  spectacle  of 
that  holy  love  which  consecrates  every  part  of  life.  I mean, 
in  the  case  of  my  mother,  whose  waking  and  sleeping  thoughts 
were  all  for  her  husband,  who  worked  continually  and  cheer- 
fully with  her  hands  that  he  might  be  enabled  to  study  with- 
out other  work,  and  gave  up  her  whole  life,  without  grudging 
— even  reckoning  it  her  happiness  and  her  privilege — in  order 
to  provide  food  and  shelter  for  him.  It  was  enough  reward 
for  her  that  he  should  sometimes  lay  his  hand  lovingly  upon 
her  head,  or  turn  his  eyes  with  affection  to  meet  hers. 

It  was  in  the  night  of  June  12th,  as  I lay  in  bed,  not  yet 
asleep,  though  it  was  already  past  nine  o'clock,  that  I heard 
the  trampling  of  hoofs  crossing  the  stream  and  passing  our 
cottage.  Had  I known  who  were  riding  those  horses  there 
would  have  been  but  little  sleep  for  me  that  night.  But  I 
knew  not,  and  did  not  suspect,  and  so,  supposing  that  it  was 
only  one  of  the  farmers  belated,  I closed  my  eyes,  and  pres- 
ently slept  until  the  morning. 

About  five  o'clock  or  a little  before  that  time,  I awoke,  the 
sun  having  already  arisen,  and  being  now  well  above  the  hill. 
I arose  softly,  leaving  my  mother  asleep  still,  and  having 
dressed  quickly,  and  prayed  a little,  I crept  softly  down  the 
stairs.  In  the  house  there  was  such  a stillness  that  I could 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


73 


even  hear  the  regular  breathing  of  my  father  as  he  slept  upon 
his  pallet  among  his  books;  it  was  chill  and  damp,  as  is  the 
custom  in  the  early  morning,  in  the  room  where  we  lived  and 
worked.  Yet  when  I threw  open  door  and  shutter  and  looked 
outside  the  air  was  full  of  warmth  and  refreshment;  as  for  the 
birds,  they  had  long  since  left  their  nests,  and  now  were  busy 
looking  for  their  breakfast;  the  larks  were  singing  overhead, 
and  the  bees  already  humming  and  droning.  Who  would  lie 
abed  when  he  could  get  up  and  enjoy  the  beauty  of  the  morn- 
ing? When  I had  breathed  awhile  with  pleasure  and  satis- 
faction the  soft  air,  which  was  laden  with  the  scent  of  flowers 
and  of  hay,  I went  in-doors  again,  and  swept  and  dusted  the 
room.  Then  I opened  the  cupboard,  and  considered  the  pro- 
vision for  breakfast.  For  my  father  there  would  be  a slice  of 
cold  bacon  with  a good  crust  of  home-made  bread  (better  bread 
or  sweeter  bread  was  nowhere  to  be  had)  and  a cup  of  cider, 
warming  to  the  spirits,  and  good,  for  one  who  is  no  longer 
youug,  against  any  rawness  of  the  morning  air.  For  my 
mother  and  myself  there  would  be,  as  soon  as  our  neighbors* 
cows  were  milked,  a cup  of  warm  milk  and  bread  soaked  in 
it.  *Tis  a breakfast  good  for  a grown  person  as  well  as  for  a 
child,  and  it  cost  us  nothing  but  the  trouble  of  going  to  take  it. 

When  I had  swept  the  room  and  laid  everything  in  its  place, 
I went  into  the  garden,  hoe  in  hand,  to  weed  the  beds  and  trim 
the  borders.  The  garden  was  not  very  big,  it  is  true,  but  it 
produced  many  things  useful  for  us;  notably  onions  and  salad, 
besides  many  herbs  good  for  the  house,  for  it  was  a fertile  strip 
of  ground,  and  planted  in  every  part  of  it.  Now  such  was  the 
beauty  of  the  morning  and  the  softness  of  the  air  that  I pres- 
ently forgot  the  work  about  which  I had  come  into  the  garden, 
and  sat  down  in  the  shade  upon  a bench,  suffering  my  thoughts 
to  wander  hither  and  thither.  Much  have  I always  pitied 
those  poor  folk  in  towns  who  can  never  escape  from  the  noise 
and  clatter  of  tongues  and  sit  somewhere  in  the  sunshine  or 
the  shade,  while  the  cattle  low  in  the  meadows  and  the  sum- 
mer air  makes  the  leaves  to  rustle,  and  suffer  their  thoughts 
to  wander  here  and  there.  Every  morning  when  I arose  was 
this  spectacle  of  Nature's  gladness  presented  to  my  eyes,  but 
not  every  morning  could  my  spirit,  which  sometimes  crawls  as 
if  fearing  the  light  of  day  and  the  face  of  the  sun,  rise  to  meet 
and  greet  it,  and  feel  it  calling  aloud  for  a hymn  of  praise  and 
thanksgiving.  For,  indeed,  this  is  a beautiful  world,  if  we 
could  always  suffer  its  loveliness,  which  we  can  not,  for  the 
earthliness  of  our  natures,  to  sink  into  our  hearts.  I know 
not  what  I thought  this  morning,  but  X remember,  while  X 


74 


FOR  FAITH  ANT)  FREEDOM. 


considered  the  birds,  which  neither  reap  nor  sow,  nor  take 
any  thought  of  to-morrow,  yet  are  daily  fed  by  Heaven,  that 
the  words  were  whispered  in  mine  ear:  “ Are  ye  not  much 
better  than  they?”  This,  without  doubt,  prepared  my  heart 
for  what  should  follow. 

While  I sat  thinking  of  I know  not  what,  there  came  foot- 
steps— quick  footsteps— along  the  road,  and  I knew  those 
footsteps,  and  sprung  to  my  feet,  and  ran  to  the  garden  gate, 
crying,  “ Robin! — it  is  Robin!” 

Yes,  it  was  Robin. 

He  seized  me  by  both  hands,  looking  in  my  face  curiously 
and  eagerly. 

“ Grace!”  he  said,  drawing  a deep  breath.  “ Oh,  but  what 
hath  happened  to  thee?” 

“ What  should  happen,  Robin?” 

“ Oh,  thou  art  changed,  Grace!  I left  thee  almost  a child, 
and  now — now — 1 thought  to  catch  thee  in  my  arms — a sweet 
rustic  nymph — and  now — fain  must  I go  upon  my  knees  to  a 
goddess.” 

“ Robin!”  Who,  indeed,  would  have  expected  such  lan- 
guage from  Robin? 

“ Grace,”  he  said,  still  gazing  upon  me  with  a kind  of 
wonder  which  made  me  blush,  “ do  you  remember  when  we 
parted  four  years  ago — the  words  we  said?  As  for  me,  I have 
never  forgotten  them.  I was  to  think  of  thee  always;  I was 
to  love  thee  always.  Truly  I may  say  that  there  is  never  a 
day  but  thou  hast  been  in  my  mind.  But  not  like  this — ” 
He  continued  to  look  upon  me  as  upon  some  strange  creature, 
so  that  I began  to  be  frightened  and  turned  away. 

“ Nay,  Grace,  forgive  me.  I am  one  who  is  dazzled  by  the 
splendor  of  the  sun.  Forgive  me;  I can  not  speak.  I thought 
of  a village  beauty,  rosy-cheeked,  sweet  and  wholesome  as  an 
August  quarander,  and  I find — 99 

“ Robin — not  a goddess.” 

“ Well,  then,  a woman  tall  and  stately,  and  more  beautiful 
than  words  can  say.” 

“ Nay,  Robin,  you  do  but  flatter.  That  is  not  like  the  old 
Robin  I remember  and — 99  I should  have  added  “loved,” 
but  the  word  stuck. 

“I  swear,  sweet  saint — if  I may  swear — nay,  then  I do 
affirm,  that  I do  not  flatter.  Hear  me  tell  a plain  tale.  I 
have  traveled  far  since  last  I saw  thee;  I have  seen  the  great 
ladies  of  the  court  both  of  St.  James's  and  of  the  Louvre;  I 
have  seen  the  famous  beauties  of  Provence,  and  the  black-eyed 


FOR  FAITH  AHH  FREEDOM.  75 

witches  of  Italy,  but  nowhere  have  I seen  a woman  half  so 
fair.” 

“ Robin — you  must  not.  Nay,  Robin — you  shame  me.” 

Then  he  knelt  at  my  feet  and  seized  my  hand  and  kissed  it. 
Oh,  the  foolishness  of  a man  in  love.  And  yet  it  pleases  us. 
No  woman  is  worth  it.  No  woman  can  understand  it,  nor 
can  she  comprehend  the  power  and  might  of  man's  love,  nor 
why  he  singles  out  her  alone  from  all  the  rest  and  fills  his 
heart  wholly  with  her,  so  that  all  other  women  are  hence- 
forward as  his  sisters.  It  is  wonderful;  it  is  most  wonderful. 
Yet  it  pleases  us.  Nay,  we  thank  God  for  it  with  all  our 
heart  and  with  all  our  soul. 

I would  not,  if  I could,  set  down  all  the  things  which  Robin 
said.  First,  because  the  words  of  love  are  sacred;  next,  be- 
cause I would  not  that  other  women  should  know  the  extrava- 
gance of  his  praise.  It  was  in  broken  words,  because  love  can 
never.be  eloquent. 

As  for  me,  what  could  I do,  what  could  I say?  For  I had 
loved  him  from  my  very  childhood,  and  now  all  my  heart 
went  out  from  me  and  became  his.  I was  all  his.  I was  his 
slave  to  command.  That  is  the  quality  of  earthly  love  by 
which  it  most  closely  resembles  the  heavenly  love,  so  that  just 
as  the  godly  man  is  wholly  devoted  to  the  will  of  the  Lord  in 
all  things  great  and  small,  resigned  to  His  chastisements,  and 
always  anxious  to  live  and  die  in  His  service,  so  in  earthly  love 
one  must  be  wholly  devoted  to  the  person  whom  one  loves. 

And  Robin  was  come  home  again,  and  I was  lying  in  his 
arms,  and  he  was  kissing  me,  and  calling  me  all  the  sweet  and 
tender  things  that  he  could  invent,  and  laughing  and  sighing 
together  as  if  too  happy  to  be  quiet.  Oh,  the  sweetest  mo- 
ments of  my  life!  Why  did  they  pass  so  quickly?  Oh,  sacra- 
ment of  love,  which  can  be  taken  only  once,  and  yet  changes 
the  whole  of  life  and  fills  it  with  memory  which  is  wholly 
sweet!  In  all  other  earthly  things  there  is  something  of  bitter- 
ness. In  this  holy  joy  of  pure  and  sacred  love  there  is  no 
bitterness — no,  not  any.  It  leaves  behind  nothing  of  reproach 
or  of  repentance,  of  shame  or  of  sorrow.  It  is  altogether 
holy. 

Now,  when  my  boy  had  somewhat  recovered  from  his  first 
rapture,  and  I had  assured  him  very  earnestly  that  I was  not, 
indeed,  an  angel,  but  a most  sinful  woman,  daily  offending 
in  my  inner  thoughts  (which  he  received,  indeed,  with  an  ap- 
pearance of  disbelief  and  scorn),  I was  able  to  consider  his 
appearance,  which  was  now  very  fine,  though  always,  as  I 
learned  when  I saw  him  among  other  gentlemen,  with  some 


76 


FOR  FAITH  AtfD  FREEDOM. 


soberness,  as  became  one  whose  upbringing  inclined  him  to 
soberness  of  dress  as  well  as  of  speech  and  manner.  He  wore 
a long  wig  of  brown  hair,  which  might  have  been  his  own  but 
for  its  length;  his  hat  was  laced  and  cocked,  which  gave  him 
a gallant  and  martial  appearance;  his  neckcloth  was  long  and 
of  fine  lace;  beside  him  in  my  russet  gown  I must  have  looked 
truly  plain  and  rustic,  but  Robin  was  pleased  not  to  think  so, 
and  love  is  a great  magician  to  cheat  the  eyes. 

He  was  home  again;  he  told  me  he  should  travel  no  more 
(yet  you  shall  hear  how  far  he  afterward  traveled) ; his  only 
desire  now  was  to  stay  at  home  and  live  as  his  grandfather 
had  lived,  in  his  native  village;  he  had  nothing  to  pray  for 
but  the  continuance  of  my  love — of  which,  indeed,  there  was 
no  doubt  possible. 

It  was  now  close  upon  six  o^clock,  and  I begged  him  to  go 
away  for  the  present,  and  if  my  father  and  Sir  Christopher 
should  agree,  and  if  it  should  seem  to  his  honor  a fit  and 
proper  thing  that  Robin  should  marry  a girl  so  penniless  as 
myself,  why — then — we  might  meet  again  after  breakfast,  or 
after  dinner;  or,  indeed,  at  any  other  time,  and  so  discourse 
more  upon  the  matter.  So  he  left  me,  being  very  reluctant 
to  go;  and  I,  forgetting  my  garden  and  what  I had  come 
forth  to  do,  returned  to  the  house. 

You  must  understand  that  all  these  things  passed  in  the 
garden,  divided  from  the  lane  by  a thick  hedge,  and  that 
passers-by — but  there  were  none — could  not,  very  well  have 
seen  what  was  done,  though  they  might  have  heard  what  was 
said.  But  if  my  father  had  looked  out  of  his  window  he  could 
have  seen,  and  if  my  mother  had  come  down-stairs  she  almost 
might  have  seen  through  the  window,  or  through  the  open 
door.  Of  this  I thought  not  upon,  nor  was  there  anything  to 
hide — though  one  would  not  willingly  suffer  any  one,  even 
one^s  own  mother — to  see  and  listen  at  such  a moment.  Yet 
mother  has  since  told  me  that  she  saw  Robin  on  his  knees  kiss- 
ing my  hands,  but  she  withdrew  and  would  not  look  again. 

When  I stepped  within  the  door  she  was  at  work  with  her 
wheel,  and  looked  up  with  a smile  upon  her  lips,  and  tears 
were  in  her  eyes.  Had  I known  what  she  had  seen  I should 
have  been  ashamed. 

“ Daughter,”  she  said,  softly,  “ thy  cheek  is  burning  red. 
Hast  thou,  perchance,  been  too  long  in  the  sun?” 

“ No,  mother;  the  sun  is  not  too  hot.” 

“Daughter,”  she  went  on,  still  smiling  through  tears, 
“ thine  eyes  are  bright  and  glowing.  Hast  thou  a touch  of 
fever  by  ill  chance?” 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM.  7? 

“ No,  mother,  I have  no  fever.  ” 

“ Child,  thy  lips  are  trembling  and  thy  hands  are  shaking. 
My  dear,  my  dear,  what  is  it?  Tell  thy  mother  all.” 

She  held  out  her  arms  to  me,  and  I threw  myself  at  her  feet 
and  buried  my  head  in  her  lap,  as  if  I had  been  again  a child. 

“ Mother,  mother!”  I cried,  “ Eobin  hath  come  home  again, 
and  he  says  he  loves  me,  and  nothing  will  do  but  he  must 
marry  me.” 

“ My  dear,”  she  said,  kissing  and  fondling  me,  “ Eobin 
hath  always  been  a good  lad,  and  I doubt  not  that  he  hath 
returned  unspotted  from  the  world;  but  nay,  do  not  let  us  be 
too  sure.  For,  first,  his  honor  must  consent,  and  then 
madame;  and  thy  father  must  be  asked,  and  he  would  never, 
for  any  worldly  honor,  suffer  thee  to  marry  an  ungodly  man. 
As  for  thy  lack  of  fortune,  I know  not  if  it  will  stand  in  the 
way,  and  as  for  family,  thy  father,  though  he  was  born  in 
New  England,  cometh  of  a good  stock,  and  I myself  am  a 
gentlewoman,  and  on  both  sides  we  bear  an  ancient  coat  of 
arms.  And  as  for  thyself,  my  dear,  thou  art — I thank  God 
for  it — of  a sweet  temper  and  an  obedient  disposition.  From 
the  earliest  thou  hast  never  given  thy  mother  any  uneasiness, 
and  I think  thy  heart  hath  been  mercifully  disposed  toward 
goodness  from  thy  childhood  upward.  It  is  a special  grace  in 
this  our  long  poverty  and  oppression,  and  it  consoles  me  partly 
for  the  loss  of  my  son  Barnaby.  ” Here  she  was  silent  for  a 
space,  and  her  eyes  filled  and  brimmed  over.  “ Child,”  she 
said,  earnestly,  “ thou  art  comely  in  the  eyes  of  men;  that 
have  I known  for  long.  It  is  partly  for  thy  sweet  looks  that 
Sir  Christopher  loves  thee;  Mr.  Boscorel  plays  music  with  thee 
because  his  eyes  love  to  behold  the  beauty  of  woman.  Nay,  I 
mean  no  reproach,  because  it  is  the  nature  of  men  to  love  all 
things  beautiful,  whether  it  be  the  plumage  of  a bird  or  the 
shape  of  a woman's  head.  Yes,  thou  art  beautiful,  my  dear. 
Beauty  passes,  but  love  remains.  Thy  husband  will  per- 
chance never  cease  to  think  thee  lovely  if  he  still  proves  daily 
thy  goodness  and  the  loveliness  of  thy  heart.  My  dear,  thou 
hast  long  comforted  thy  mother;  now  shalt  thou  go,  with  the 
blessing  of  the  Lord,  to  be  the  solace  and  the  joy  of  thy  hus- 
band.” • 


CHAPTEE  XII. 

HUMPHREY. 

Presently  my  father  came  in,  the  Bible  in  his  hand.  By 
his  countenance  it  was  plain  that  he  had  been  already  engaged 


78  For  faith  and  freedom. 

in  meditation,  and  that  his  mind  was  charged  as  with  R 
message. 

Alas!  to  think  of  the  many  great  discourses  that  he  pro- 
nounced (being  as  a dog  who  must  be  muzzled  should  he  leave 
the  farm-yard)  to  us  women  alone.  If  they  were  written  down 
the  world  would  lift  up  its  hands  with  wonder,  and  ask  if  a 
prophet  indeed  had  been  vouchsafed  to  this  unhappy  country. 
The  Roman  Church  will  have  that  the  time  of  saints  did  not 
end  with  the  last  of  the  Apostles;  that  may  be,  and  yet  a saint 
has  no  more  power  after  death  than  remains  in  his  written 
words  and  in  the  memory  of  his  life.  Shall  we  not,  however, 
grant  that  there  may  still  be  prophets,  who  see  and  apprehend 
the  meaning  of  words  and  of  things  more  fully  than  others 
even  as  spiritually  minded  as  themselves?  Now,  I say,  con- 
sidering what  was  immediately  to  befall  us,  the  passage  which 
my  father  read  and  expounded  that  morning  was  in  a manner 
truly  prophetic.  It  was  the  vision  of  the  basket  of  summer 
fruit  which  was  vouchsafed  to  the  prophet  Amos.  He  read  to 
us  that  terrible  chapter — everybody  knows  it,  though  it  hath 
but  fourteen  verses: 

“ And  I will  turn  your  feasts  into  mourning,  and  all  your 
songs  into  lamentation — I will  send  a famine  in  the  land,  not 
a famine  of  bread,  nor  a thirst  for  water,  but  of  hearing  the 
words  of  the  Lord.” 

He  then  applied  the  chapter  to  these  times,  saying  that  the 
Scriptures  and  the  prophecies  apply  not  only  to  the  Israel  of 
the  time  when  Amos  or  any  other  prophet  lived,  but  to  the 
people  of  God  in  all  ages,  yet  so  that  sometimes  one  prophet 
seems  to  deliver  the  message  that  befits  the  time,  and  some- 
times another.  All  these  things  prophesied  by  Amos  had 
come  to  pass  in  this  country  of  Great  Britain,  so  that  there 
was,  and  had  now  been  for  twenty-five  years,  a grievous 
famine  and  a sore  thirst  for  the  words  of  the  Lord.  He  con- 
tinued to  explain  and  to  enlarge  upon  this  topic  for  nearly  an 
hour,  when  he  concluded  with  a fervent  prayer  that  the  famine 
would  pass  away,  and  the  sealed  springs  be  open  again  for  the 
children  of  grace  to  drink  and  be  refreshed. 

This  done  he  took  his  breakfast  in  silence,  as  was  his  wont, 
loving  not  to  be  disturbed  by  any  earthly  matters  when  his 
mind  was  full  of  his  morning  discourse.  When  he  had  eaten 
the  bread  and  meat  and  taken  the  cup  of  cider,  he  arose  and 
went  back  to  his  own  room,  and  shut  the  door.  We  should 
have  no  more  speech  of  him  until  dinner-time. 

“ I will  speak  with  him,  my  dear,”  said  my  mother;  “ but 
not  yet.  Let  us  wait  till  we  hear  from  Sir  Christopher.  ” 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


79 


“I  would  that  my  father  had  read  us  a passage  of  en- 
couragement and  promise  on  this  morning  of  all  mornings/* 
1 said. 

My  mother  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  Bible.  “ I will 
read  yoti  a verse  of  encouragement/*  she  said.  “ It  is  the 
word  of  God  as  much  as  the  Book  of  the  Prophet  Amos.**  So 
she  found  and  read  for  my  comfort  words  which  had  a new 
meaning  to  me : 

“ My  beloved  spake,  and  said  unto  me,  ‘ Rise  up,  my  love, 
my  fair  one,  and  come  away.  For,  lo,  the  winter  is  past,  the 
rain  is  over  and  gone;  the  flowers  appear  on  the  earth;  the 
time  of  the  singing  of  birds  is  come,  and  the  voice  of  the  turtle 
is  heard  in  our  land;  the  fig-tree  putteth  forth  her  green  figs, 
and  the  vines  with  the  tender  grape  give  a good  smell.  Arise, 
my  love,  my  fair  one,  and  come  away.  * ** 

And  again,  these  that  follow: 

“ Set  me  as  a seal  upon  thine  heart,  as  a seal  upon  thine 
arm,  for  love  is  strong  as  death;  jealousy  is  cruel  as  the  grave; 
the  coals  thereof  are  coals  of  fire,  which  hath  a most  vehement 
flame.  Many  waters  can  not  quench  love,  neither  can  the 
floods  drown  it;  if  a man  would  give  all  the  substance  of  his 
house  for  love,  it  would  utterly  be  contemned.** 

In  these  gracious,  nay,  these  enraptured,  words  doth  the 
Bible  speak  of  love,  and  though  I am  not  so  ignorant  as  not 
to  know  that  it  is  the  love  of  the  Church  for  Christ,  yet  I am 
persuaded  by  my  own  spiritual  experience — whatever  doctors 
of  divinity  may  argue — that  the  earthly  love  of  husband  and 
wife  may  be  spoken  of  in  these  very  words  as  being  the  type  of 
that  other  and  higher  love.  And  in  this  matter  I know  that 
my  mother  would  also  confirm  my  judgment. 

It.  might  have  been  between  nine  and  ten  that  Humphrey 
came.  Surely  he  was  changed  more  than  Robin;  for  the  great 
white  periwig  which  he  wore  (being  a physician),  falling  upon 
his  shoulders,  did  partly  hide  the  deformity  of  his  shoulder, 
and  the  black  velvet  coat  did  also  become  him  mightily.  As 
for  his  face,  that  was  not  changed  at  all.  It  had  been  grave 
and  serious  in  youth;  it  was  now  more  grave  and  more  serious 
in  manhood.  He  stood  in  the  doorway,  not  seeing  me — I was 
making  a pudding  for  dinner,  with  my  sleeves  rolled  up  and 
my  arms  white  with  flour. 

“ Mistress  Eykin/*  he  said,  “ are  old  friends  passed  out  of 
mind?** 

“ Why  ** — my  mother  left  her  wheel  and  gave  him  her 
hand — “ *tis  Humphrey.  I knew  that  we  should  see  thee  this 


80 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


morning,  Humphrey.  Is  thy  health  good,  my  son,  and  is  all 
well  with  thee?” 

“ All  is  well,  madame,  and  my  health  is  good.  How  is  my 
master — thy  husband?” 

“ He  is  always  well,  and — but  thou  knowest  what  manner 
of  life  he  leads.  Of  late  he  hath  been  much  disquieted;  he  is 
restless — his  mind  runs  much  upon  the  prophecies  of  war  and 
pestilence.  It  is  the  news  from  London  and  the  return  of  the 
mass  which  keep  him  uneasy.  Go  in  and  see  him,  Humphrey. 
He  will  willingly  suffer  thee  to  disturb  him,  though  we  must 
not  go  near  him  in  his  hours  of  study.” 

“ Presently;  but  where  is  my  old  playfellow? — where  is 
Grace?” 

“ She  is  behind  you,  Humphrey.” 

He  turned,  and  his  pale  face  flushed  when  he  saw  me. 

“ Grace?”  he  cried.  “ Is  this  Grace?  Nay,  she  is  changed, 
indeed.  I knew  not — I could  not  expect — nay,  how  could  one 
expect—” 

“ There  is  no  change,”  said  my  mother,  sharply.  “ Grace 
was  a child,  and  is  now  a woman;  that  is  all.” 

“ Humphrey  expects/’  I said,  “ that  we  should  all  stop  still 
while  time  went  on.  You  were  to  become  a bachelor  of  medi- 
cine, sir,  and  a Fellow  of  All  Souls’  College,  and  to  travel  in 
Italy  and  France,  and  to-  come  back  in  a velvet  coat,  and  a 
long  sword,  and  a periwig  over  your  shoulders,  and  I was  to 
be  a little  girl  still.” 

Humphrey  shook  his  head. 

“ It  is  not  only  that,”  he  said,  “ though  I confess  that  one 
did  not  make  due  allowance  for  the  flight  of  time.  It  is  that 
the  sweet-faced  child  has  become — ” 

“ No,  Humphrey,”  I said.  “ I want  no  compliments.  Go 
now,  sir,  and  speak  with  my  father.  Afterward  you  shall  tell 
me  all  that  you  have  been  doing.” 

He  obeyed,  and  opened  my  father’s  door. 

“ Humphrey!”  My  father  sprung  to  his  feet.  “ Welcome, 
my  pupil!  Thou  bringest  good  news?  Nay;  I have  received 
thy  letters;  I read  the  good  news  in  thy  face — I see  it  in  thine 
eyes.  Welcome  home!” 

“ Sir,  I have,  indeed,  great  news,”  said  Humphrey. 

Then  the  door  was  closed. 

He  stayed  there  for  half  an  hour  and  more,  and  we  heard 
from  within  earnest  talk — my  father’s  voice  sometimes  up- 
lifted, loud  and  angry,  but  Humphrey’s  always  low,  as  if  he 
did  not  wish  us  to  overhear  them.  So,  not  to  seem  unto  each 
other  as  if  we  were  listening,  mother  and  I talked  of  other 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


81 


things,  such  as  the  lightness  of  the  pudding,  and  the  quantity 
of  suet  which  should  be  put  into  it,  and  the  time  it  should  boil 
in  the  pot,  and  other  things,  as  women  can  whose  hearts  are 
full,  yet  they  must  needs  be  talking. 

“Father  hath  much  to  say  to  Humphrey,”  I said,  after  a 
time;  “ he  did  not  use  to  like  such  interruption.” 

“ Humphrey’s  conversation  is  no  interruption,  my  dear. 
They  think  the  same  thoughts  and  talk  the  same  language. 
Your  father  may  teach  and  admonish  us,  but  he  can  only  con- 
verse with  a scholar  such  as  himself.  It  is  not  the  least  evil 
of  our  oppression  that  he  hath  been  cut  off  from  the  society  of 
learned  men,  in  which  he  used  to  take  so  much  delight.  If 
Humphrey  remains  here  a little  while  you  shall  see  your  father 
lose  the  eager  and  anxious  look  which  hath  of  late  possessed 
him.  He  will  talk  to  Humphrey,  and  will  clear  his  mind. 
Then  he  will  be  contented  again  for  a while,  or,  at  least,  re- 
signed. ” 

Presently  Humphrey  came  forth.  His  face  was  grave  and 
serious.  My  father  came  out  of  the  room  after  him. 

“Let  us  talk  more,”  he  said;  “let  us  resume  our  talk. 
Join  me  on  the  hill-side,  where  none  can  hear  us.  It  is,  in- 
deed, the  vision  of  the  basket  of  summer  fruit  that  we  read 
this  morning.”  His  face  was  working  with  some  inward  ex- 
citement, and  his  eyes  were  full  of  a strange  light  as  of  a glad 
conqueror,  or  of  one — forbid  the  thought — who  was  faking  a 
dire  revenge.  He  strode  down  the  garden  and  out  into  the 
lanes. 

“ Thus,”  said  my  mother,  “ will  he  walk  out,  and  some- 
times remain  in  the  woods,  walking,  preaching  to  the  winds, 
and  swinging  his  arms  the  whole  day  long.  Art  thou  a phy- 
sician, and  canst  thou  heal  him,  Humphrey?” 

“ If  the  cause  be  removed  the  disease  will  be  cured.  Per- 
haps before  long  the  cause  will  be  removed.  ” 

“The  cause — oh,  the  cause! — what  is  the  cause  but  the 
tyranny  of  the  law?  He  who  was  ordered  by  Heaven  itself  to 
preach  is  silent  for  five-and-twenty  years.  His  very  life  hath 
been  taken  from  him.  And  you  talk  of  removing  the  cause!” 

“ Madame,  if  the  law  suffer  him  once  more  to  preach  freely 
would  that  satisfy  him — and  you?” 

My  mother  shook  her  head.  “ The  law,  the  law,”  she 
said,  “ now  we  have  a Papist  on  the  throne,  it  is  far  more 
likely  to  lead  my  husband  to  the  stake  than  to  set  him  free.  ” 

“ That  we  shall  shortly  see,”  said  Humphrey. 

My  mother  bent  her  head  over  her  wheel  as  one  who  wishes 


82 


FOE  FAITH  AND  FKEEDOM. 


to  talk  no  more  upon  the  subject.  She  loved  not  to  speak 
concerning  her  husband  to  any  except  to  me. 

I went  out  into  the  garden  with  Humphrey.  I was  foolish. 
I laughed  at  nothing.  I talked  nonsense.  Oh,  I was  so 
happy  that  if  a pipe  and  tabor  had  been  heard  in  the  village  I 
should  have  danced  to  the  music,  like  poor  Barnaby  the  night 
before  he  ran  away.  I regarded  not  the  grave  and  serious  face 
of  my  companion. 

“ You  are  merry,  Grace,”  said  Humphrey. 

“It  is  because  you  are  come  back  again — you  and  Robin. 
Oh,  the  time  has  been  long  and  dull — and  now  you  have  come 
we  shall  all  be  happy  again.  Yes,  my  father  will  cease  to  fret 
and  rage;  he  will  talk  Latin  and  Greek  with  you;  Sir  Christo- 
pher will  be  happy  only  in  looking  upon  you;  madame  will 
have  her  son  home  again,  and  Mr.  Boscorel  will  bring  out  all 
the  old  music  for  you.  Humphrey,  it  is  a happy  day  that 
brings  you  home  again. ” 

“It  may  be  a happy  day  also  for  me,”  he  said,  “ but  there 
is  much  to  be  done.  When  the  business  we  have  in  hand  is 
accomplished — ” 

“ What  business,  Humphrey?”  For  he  spoke  so  gravely 
that  he  startled  me. 

“ *Tis  business  of  which  my  father  knows,  child.  Nay,  let 
us  not  talk  of  it.  I think  and  hope  that  it  is  as  good  as  ac- 
complished now  before  it  is  well  taken  in  hand.  It  is  not  of 
that  business  that  I would  speak.  Grace,  thou  art  so  beauti- 
ful and  so  tall — 99 

“ Nay,  Humphrey.  I must  not  be  flattered.” 

“ And  I so  crooked.” 

“ Humphrey,  I will  not  hear  this  talk.  You,  so  great  a 
scholar,  thus  to  speak  of  yourself.” 

“ Let  me  speak  of  myself,  my  dear.  Hear  me  for  a mo- 
ment.” I declare  that  I had  not  the  least  thought  of  what  he 
was  going  to  say,  my  mind  being  wholly  occupied  with  the 
idea  of  Robin. 

“ I am  a physician,  as  you  doubtless  know.  Medicinae  doc- 
tor of  Oxford,  of  Padua,  Montpellier,  and  Leyden.  I know 
all — I may  fairly  say,  and  without  boasting — that  may  be 
learned  by  one  of  my  age  from  schools  of  medicine  and  from 
books  on  the  science  and  practice  of  healing.  I believe,  in 
short,  that  I am  as  good  a physician  as  can  be  found  within  these 
seas.  I am  minded,  as  soon  as  tranquillity  is  restored,  to  set 
up  as  a physician  in  London,  where  I have  already  many 
friends,  and  am  assured  of  some  support,  I think,  humbly 


foil  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


S3 

speaking,  that  reasonable  success  awaits  me.  Grace— you 

know  that  I have  loved  you  all  my  life— will  you  marry  me, 
crooked  as  I am?  Oh,  you  can  not  but  know  that  I have 
loved  you  all  my  life.  Oh,  child  !”  he  stretched  forth  his 
hands,  and  in  his.  eyes  there  was  a world  of  longing  and  of 
sadness  which  moved  my  heart.  “ My  dear,  the  crooked  in 
body  have  no  friends  among  men;  they  can  not  join  in  their 
rough  sports,  nor  drink  with  them,  nor  fight  with  them. 
They  have  no  chance  of  happiness  but  in  love,  my  dear.  My 
dear,  give  me  that  chance.  I love  thee.  Oh,  my  dear,  give  < 
me  that  chance.” 

Never  had  I seen  Humphrey  so  moved  before.  I felt  guilty 
and  ashamed  in  the  presence  of  this  passion  of  which  I was  the 
most  unworthy  cause. 

“Oh,  Humphrey,  stop!  for  Heaven^s  sake  stop!  because  I 
am  but  this  very  morning  promised  to  Eobin,  who  loves  me, 
too,  and  I love  Robin,  Humphrey.  He  sunk  back,  pale  and 
disordered,  and  I thought  that  he  would  swoon,  but  he  re- 
covered. “ Humphrey,  never  doubt  that  I love  you,  too,  but 
oh,  I love  Robin,  and  Robin  loves  me.” 

“ Yes,  dear — yes,  child — -yes,  Grace,”  he  said,  in  broken 
accents.  “ I understand;  everything  is  for  Robin — everything 
for  Robin.  Why,  I might  have  guessed  it.  For  Robin,  the 
straight  and  comely  figure;  for  Robin,  the  strength;  for  Robin, 
the  inheritance;  for  Robin,  happy  love.  For  me,  a crooked 
body;  for  me,  a feeble  frame;  for  me,  the  loss  of  fortune;  for 
me,  contempt  and  poverty;  for  me,  the  loss  of  love.  All  for 
Robin — all  for  Robin.  ” 

“ Humphrey,  surely  thou  wouldst  not  envy  or  be  jealous  of 
Robin?” 

Never  had  I seen  him  thus  moved,  or  heard  him  thus  speak. 
He  made  no  answer  for  a while;  then  he  said,  slowly  and 
painfully:  “ Grace,  I am  ashamed.  Why  should  not  Robin 
have  all?  Who  am  I that  I should  have  anything?  Forgive 
me,  child.  I have  lived  in  a paradise  which  fools  create  for 
themselves.  I have  suffered  myself  to  dream  that  what  I 
ardently  desired  was  possible,  and  even  probable.  Forgive 
me!  Let  me  be  as  before — your  brother.  Will  you  forgive 
me,  dear?” 

“ Oh,  Humphrey,  there  is  nothing  for  me  to  forgive.” 

“ Nay,  there  is  much  for  me  to  repent  of.  Forget  it,  then, 
if  there  is  nothing  to  forgive.” 

“ I have  forgotten  it  already,  Humphrey.” 

“ So  ” — he  turned  upon  me  his  grave,  sweet  face,  to  think 
of  it  makes  me  yearn  with  tenderness  and  pity  to  see  that  face 


84 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 

again — “ so,  farewell,  fond  dream.  Do  not  think,  my  dear, 
that  I envy  Robin.  *Twas  a sweet  dream.  Yet,  I pray  that 
Heaven  in  wrath  may  forget  me  if  ever  I suffer  this  passion  of 
envy  to  hurt  my  cousin  Robin  or  thyself. ?J> 

So  saying  he  burst  from  me  with  distraction  in  his  face. 
Poor  Humphrey!  Alas!  when  I look  back  and  consider  this 
day  there  is  a doubt  which  haunts  me.  Always  had  I loved 
Robin;  that  is  most  true.  But  I had  always  loved  Humphrey; 
that  is  most  true.  What  if  it  had  been  Humphrey  instead  of 
Robin  who  had  arisen  in  the  early  morning  to  find  his  sweet- 
heart in  the  garden  when  the  dew  was  yet  upon  the  grass? 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

ONE  DAY. 

In  times  of  great  sorrow  the  godly  person  ought  to  look  for- 
ward to  the  never-ending  joy  and  happiness  that  will  follow 
this  short  life.  Yet  we  still  look  backward  to  the  happy  time 
that  is  past  and  can  never  come  again.  And  then  how  happy 
does  it  seem  to  have  been  in  comparison  with  present  affliction! 

It  pleased  Heaven  after  many  trials  to  restore  my  earthly  hap- 
piness— at  least,  in  its  principal  part,  which  is  earthly  love. 
Some  losses — grievous  and  lamentable — there  were  which  could 
not  be  restored.  Yet  for  a long  time  I had  no  other  comfort 
(apart  from  that  hope  which  I trust  was  never  suffered  to  harm 
me)  than  the  recollection  of  a single  day  from  dewy  morn  till 
dusky  eve.  I began  that  day  with  the  sweetest  joy  that  a girl 
can  ever  experience — namely,  the  return  of  her  lover  and  the 
happiness  of  learning  that  he  loves  her  more  than  ever,  and 
the  knowledge  that  her  heart  hath  gone  forth  from  her  and  is 
wholly  his.  To  such  a girl  the  woods  and  fields  become  the 
very  Garden  of  Eden;  the  breath  of  the  wind  is  as  the  voice  of 
the  Lord  blessing  another  Eve;  the  very  showers  are  the  tears 
of  gladness  and  gratitude;  the  birds  sing  hymns  of  praise;  the 
leaves  of  the  trees  whisper  words  of  love;  the  brook  prattles  of 
kisses;  the  flowers  offer  incense;  the  royal  course  of  the  sun  in 
splendor,  the  glories  of  the  sunrise  and  sunset,  the  twinkling 
stars  of  night,  the  shadows  of  the  flying  clouds,  the  pageant  of 
the  summer  day — these  are  all  prepared  for  that  one  happy 
girl  and  for  her  happy  lover!  Oh,  divine  gift  of  love!  which 
thus  gives  the  whole  world  with  its  fruits  in  season  to  the  pair! 
Nay,  doth  it  not  create  them  anew?  What  was  Adam  without 
Eve?  And  was  not  Eve  created  for  no  other  purpose  than  to 
be  a companion  to  the  man? 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


85 


I say,  then,  that  this  day,  when  Eobin  took  me  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  me — not  as  he  had  done  when  we  parted  and  I was 
still  a child,  but  with  the  fervent  kiss  of  a lover — was  the  hap- 
piest day  in  all  my  life.  I say  that  I have  never  forgotten  that 
day,  but,  by  recalling  any  point  of  it,  I remember  all:  how  he 
held  my  hand  and  how  he  made  me  confess  that  I loved  him; 
how  we  kissed  and  parted,  to  meet  again.  As  for  poor  Hum- 
phrey, I hardly  gave  him  so  much  as  a thought  of  pity.  Then, 
how  we  wandered  along  the  brook  hand  in  hand. 

“Never  to  part  again,  my  dear,”  said  the  fond  lover. 
“ Here  will  we  live,  and  here  we  will  die.  Let  Benjamin  be- 
come, if  he  please,  lord  chancellor,  and  Humphrey  a great 
physician;  they  will  have  to  live  among  men  in  towns,  where 
every  other  man  is  a rogue.  We  shall  live  in  this  sweet  coun- 
try place,  where  the  people  may  be  rude,  but  they  are  not 
knaves.  Why,  in  that  great  city  of  London,  where  the  mer- 
chants congregate  upon  the  Exchange  and  look  so  full  of  dig- 
nity and  wisdom,  each  man  is  thinking  all  the  time  that,  if  he 
fail  to  overreach  his  neighbor,  that  neighbor  will  overreach 
him.  Who  would  live  such  a life  when  he  can  pass  it  in  the 
fields  with  such  a companion  as  my  Grace?” 

The  pleasures  of  London  had  only  increased  his  thirst  for 
the  country  life.  Surely  never  was  seen  a swain  more  truly 
rustic  in  all  his  thoughts.  The  fine  ladies  at  the  play-house, 
with  their  painted  fans,  made  him  think  of  one  who  wore  a 
russet  frock  in  Somersetshire,  and  did  not  paint  her  sweet  face 
— this  was  the  way  he  talked.  The  plays  they  acted  could 
never  even  be  read,  much  less  witnessed,  by  that  dear  girl — so 
full  of  wickedness  they  were.  At  the  assemblies  the  ladies 
were  jealous  of  each  other,  and  had  scornful  looks  when  one 
seemed  preferred;  at  the  taverns  the  men  drank  and  bellowed 
songs  and  quarreled;  in  the  streets  they  fought  and  took  the 
wall  and  swaggered;  there  was  nothing  but  fighting  among  the 
baser  sort,  with  horrid  imprecations;  at  the  coffee-house  the 
politicians  argued  and  quarreled.  Nay,  in  the  very  churches 
the  sermons  were  political  arguments,  and  while  the  clergy- 
man read  his  discourse  the  gallants  ogled  the  ladies.  All  this 
and  more  he  told  me. 

To  hear  my  boy,  one  would  think  there  was  nothing  in  Lon- 
don but  what  was  wicked  and  odious.  No -doubt  it  is  a wicked 
place,  where  many  men  live  together;  those  who  are  wicked 
easily  find  each  other  out,  and  are  encouraged  in  their  wicked- 
ness. Yet  there  must  be  many  honest  and  God-fearing  per- 
sons, otherwise  the  judgment  of  Heaven  would  again  fall  upon 
that  city  as  it  did  in  the  time  of  plague  and  in  the  Great  Fire. 


86 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


“ My  pretty  Puritan/  ’ said  Robin,  “ I am  now  come  away 
from  that  place,  and  I hope  never  to  see  it  again.  Oh,  native 
hills,  I salute  you!  Oh,  woods  and  meadows,  I have  returned, 
to  wander  again  in  your  delightful  shade !”  Then,  which  was 
unusual  in  my  boy,  and  would  have  better  become  Mr.  Bos- 
corel  or  Humphrey,  he  began  to  repeat  verses.  I knew  not 
that  he  had  ever  learned  any: 

' 4 As  I range  these  spacious  fields, 

Feast  on  all  that  Nature  yields, 

Everything  inspires  delight, 

Charms  my  smell,  my  taste,  my  sight; 

Every  rural  sound  I hear 
Soothes  my  soul  and  tunes  my  ear.” 

I do  not  know  where  Robin  found  these  verses,  but  as  he  re- 
peated them,  waving  his  arm  around,  I thought  that  Hum- 
phrey himself  never  made  sweeter  lines. 

He  then  told  me  how  Humphrey  would  certainly  become  the 
most  learned  physician  of  the  time,  and  that  he  was  already 
master  of  a polite  and  dignified  manner  which  would  procure 
him  the  patronage  of  the  great  and  the  confidence  of  all.  It 
was  pleasant  to  hear  him  praise  his  cousin  without  jealousy  or 
envy.  To  be  sure,  he  knew  not  then — though  afterward  I told 
him — that  Humphrey  was  his  rival.  Even  had  he  known  this, 
such  was  the  candor  of  my  Robin  and  the  integrity  of  his  soul 
that  he  would  have  praised  him  even  more  loudly. 

One  must  not  repeat  more  of  the  kind  and  lovely  things  that 
the  dear  boy  said  while  we  strolled  together  by  the  brook-side. 

While  we  walked — ’twas  in  the  forenoon,  after  Humphrey’s 
visit — Sir  Christopher,  his  grandfather,  in  his  best  coat  and  his 
gold-laced  hat,  which  he  commonly  kept  for  church,  and  ac- 
companied by  madame,  walked  from  the  Manor  House  through 
the  village  till  they  came  to  our  cottage.  Then,  with  great 
ceremony,  they  entered.  Sir  Christopher  bowing  low  and  ma- 
dame dropping  a deep  courtesy  to  my  mother,  who  sat  humbly 
at  her  wheel. 

“ Madame/’  said  Sir  Christopher,  “we  would,  with  your 
permission,  say  a few  words  with  the  learned  Doctor  Eykin 
and  yourself. ” 

My  father,  who  had  now  returned  and  was  in  his  room, 
came  forth  when  he  was  called.  His  face  had  recovered  some- 
thing of  its  serenity,  but  his  eyes  were  still  troubled.  Madame 
sat  down,  but  Sir  Christopher  and  my  father  stood. 

“ Sir/’  said  his  honor,  “ I will  proceed  straight  to  the  point. 
My  grandson  desires  to  marry  your  daughter.  Robin  is  a good 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


87 


lad;  not  a scholar  if  you  will;  for  his  religion,  the  root  of  the 
matter,  is  in  him;  for  the  goodness  of  his  heart,  I will  answer; 
for  his  habit  of  life,  he  hath,  so  far  as  we  can  learn,  acquired 
no  vile  vices  of  the  city — he  doth  neither  drink  nor  gamble, 
nor  waste  his  health  and  strength  in  riotous  living;  and  for  his 
means,  they  are  my  own.  All  that  I have  will  be  his.  ’Tis 
no  great  estate,  but  ’twill  serve  him  as  it  hath  served  me. 
Doctor  Eykin,  the  boy’s  mother  and  I have  come  to  ask  your 
daughter  in  marriage.  We  know  her  worth,  and  we  are  well 
satisfied  that  our  boy  hath  made  so  good  and  wise  a choice.” 

“ They  were  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage  when  the 
Flood  came;  they  will  be  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage  in 
the  great  day  of  the  Lord, ” said  my  father. 

“ Yes,  gossip;  but  that  is  no  reason  why  they  should  not  be 
marrying  and  giving  in  marriage. 99 

“ You  ask  my  consent?”  said  my  father.  “ This  surprises 
me.  The  child  is  too  young:  she  is  not  yet  of  marriageable 

o rrck  9 9 


66  Husband,  she  is  nigh  upon  her  twentieth  birthday!” 

“ I thought  she  had  been  but  twelve  or  thereabouts!  My 
consent?  Why,  Sir  Christopher,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  this 
is  a great  condescension  on  your  part  to  take  a penniless  girl. 
I looked,  I suppose,  to  the  marriage  of  my  daughter  some  time 
— perhaps  to  a farmer— yes — yes,  we  are  told  that  a virtuous 
woman  hath  a price  far  above  rubies;  and  that  it  is  she  who 
buildeth  up  the  house,  and  we  are  nowhere  told  that  she  must 
bring  her  husband  a purse  of  gold.  Sir  Christopher,  it  would 
be  the  blackest  ingratitude  in  us  to  deny  you  anything,  even 
if  this  thing  were  against  the  mind  of  our  daughter. 99 

“ It  is  not — it  is  not,”  said  my  mother. 

“ Wherefore,  seeing  that  the  young  man  is  a good  man  as 
youths  go,  though  in  the  matter  of  the  syntax  he  hath  yet 
much  to  learn;  and  that  his  heart  is  disposed  toward  religion, 
I am  right  glad  that  he  should  take  our  girl  to  wife.” 

“ Bravely  said!”  cried  Sir  Christopher.  “ Hands  upon  it, 
man!  And  we  will  have  a merry  wedding.  But  to-day  I bid 
you  both  to  come  and  feast  with  us.  We  will  have  holiday 
and  rejoicing.” 

“ Yes,”  said  my  father,  “ we  will  feast,  though  to-morrow 
comes  the  Deluge. 99  I know  now  what  he  meant,  but  at  that 
time  we  knew  not,  and  it  seemed  to  his  honor  a poor  way  of 
rejoicing  at  the  return  of  the  boys  and  the  betrothal  of  his 
daughter  thus  to  be  foretelling  woes.  “ The  vision  of  the 

} dumb-line  is  before  mine  eyes,”  my  father  went  on.  “ Is  the 
and  able  to  bear  all  this?  We  talk  of  feasting  and  of  mar- 


88 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


riages.  Yet  a few  days,  or  perhaps  already — But  we  will 
rejoice  together,  my  old  friend  and  benefactor;  we  will  rejoice 
together.”  With  these  words  he  turned  and  went  back  to  his 
room,  and,  after  some  tears  with  my  mother,  madame  went 
home  and  Sir  Christopher  with  her.  But  in  honor  to  the  day 
he  kept  on  his  best  coat. 

Robin  suffered  me  to  go  home,  but  only  that  I might  put 
on  my  best  frock  (I  had  but  two)  and  make  my  hair  straight, 
which  had  been  blown  into  curls,  as  was  the  way  with  my  hair. 
And  then,  learning  from  my  mother  with  the  utmost  satisfac- 
tion what  had  passed,  he  led  me  by  the  hand,  as  if  I were 
already  his  bride,  and  so  to  the  Manor  House,  where  first  Sir 
Christopher  saluted  me  with  great  kindness,  calling  me  his 
dear  granddaughter,  and  saying  that  next  to  Robin’s  safe  re- 
turn he  asked  for  nothing  more  than  to  see  me  Robin’s  wife. 
And  madame  kissed  me,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  said  that 
she  could  desire  nothing  better  for  her  son,  and  that  she  was 
sure  I should  do  my  best  endeavors  to  make  the  boy  happy. 
Then  Humphrey,  as  quietly  as  if  he  had  not  also  asked  me  to 
be  his  wife,  kissed  my  hand,  and  wished  me  joy;  and  Mr.  Bos- 
corel  also  kissed  me,  and  declared  that  Robin  ought  to  be  the 
. happiest  dog  on  earth.  And  so  we  sat  down  to  our  feast. 

The  conversation  at  dinner  was  graver  than  the  occasion 
demanded;  for  though  our  travelers  continually  answered 
questions  about  the  foreign  lands  and  peoples  they  had  seen, 
yet  the  subject  returned  always  to  the  condition  of  the  coun- 
try, and  to  what  would  happen. 

After  dinner  we  sat  in  the  garden,  and  the  gentlemen  began 
to  talk  of  right  Divine  and  of  non-resistance — and  here  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  Mr.  Boscorel  was  looking  on  as  from  an 
eminence  apart;  for  when  he  had  once  stated  the  texts  and 
arguments  upon  which  the  High  Church  party  do  most  rely, 
he  retired  and  made  no  further  objections,  listening  in  silence 
while  my  father  held  forth  upon  the  duty  of  rising  against 
wicked  princes.  At  last,  however,  being  challenged  to  reply 
by  Humphrey,  Mr.  Boscorel  then  made  answer: 

“ The  doctrine  that  subjects  may  or  may  not  rebel  against 
their  sovereign  is  one  which  I regard  with  interest  so  long  as  it 
remains  a question  of  logic  and  argument  only.  Unfortunate- 
ly, the  times  are  such  that  we  may  be  called  upon  to  make  a 
practical  application  of  it:  in  which  case  there  may  follow 
once  more  civil  war,  with  hard  knocks  on  both  sides,  and  much 
loss  of  things  temporal.  Wherefore  to  my  learned  brother’s 
arguments,  which  I admit  to  be  plausible,  I will,  for  the  pres- 
ent, offer  no  reply,  except  to  pray  Heaven  that  the  occasion 


FOR  FAITH  A HD  FREEDOM.  89 

may  not  arise  of  converting  a disputed  doctrine  into  a rule  of 
conduct.” 

Alas!  even  while  he  spoke  the  messenger  was  speeding  swift- 
ly toward  us  who  was  to  call  upon  all  present  to  take  a side. 

The  question  is  now,  I hope,  decided  forever;  but  -many 
men  had  first  to  die.  It  was  not  decided  then,  but  three  years 
later,  when  King  William  cut  the  knot,  and,  with  the  applause 
of  the  nation,  pulled  down  his  father-in-law  and  mounted  the 
throne  himself  with  his  gracious  consort.  We  are  agreed,  at 
last,  that  kings,  like  judges,  generals,  and  all  great  officers  of 
state,  are  to  hold  their  offices  in  good  behavior.  If  they  enter 
into  machinations  against  the  liberty  of  the  people  and  desert 
the  national  religion,  they  must  descend  and  let  another  take 
their  place.  But  before  that  right  could  be  established  for  the 
country,  streams  of  blood  must  first  flow. 

While  they  talked,  we  —I  mean  madame,  my  mother,  and 
myself — sat  and  listened.  But  my  mind  was  full  of  another 
subject,  and  I heard  but  little  of  what  was  said,  noting  chiefly 
the  fiery  ardor  of  my  father  and  the  careless  grace  of  Mr.  Bos- 
corel. 

Presently  my  father,  who  was  never  easy  in  the  company  of 
Mr.  Boscorel — {so  oil  and  water  will  not  agree  to  fill  a cup  in 
friendship) — and,  besides,  being  anxious  to  rejoin  the  society 
of  his  books,  arose  and  went  away,  and  with  him  my  mother — 
he,  in  his  ragged  cassock,  who  was  a learned  scholar:  she,  in 
her  plain  homespun,  who  was  a gentlewoman  by  birth.  Often 
had  I thought  of  our  poverty  with  bitterness.  But  now  it  was 
with  a softened  heart  that  I saw  them  walk  side  by  side  across 
the  lawns.  For  now  I understood  plainly — and  for  the  first 
time — how  love  can  strengthen  and  console.  My  mother  was 
poor  but  she  was  not  therefore  unhappy. 

Mr.  Boscorel  also  rose  and  went  away  with  Humphrey. 
They  went  to  talk  of  things  more  interesting  to  the  rector  than 
the  doctrine  of  non-resistance:  of  painting,  namely,  and  statu- 
ary and  models.  And  when  we  presently  walked  from  the 
rectory  gardens  we  heard  a most  gladsome  scraping  of  fiddle- 
strings  within,  which  showed  that  the  worthy  man  was  making 
the  most  of  Humphrey^  return. 

When  Sir  Christopher  had  taken  his  pipe  of  tobacco  he  fell 
asleep.  Bobin  and  I walked  in  the  garden  and  renewed  our 
vows.  Needs  must  that  I should  tell  him  all  that  I had  done 
or  thought  since  he  went  away.  As  if  the  simple  thoughts  of 
a country  maid  should  be  of  interest  to  a man!  Yet  he  seemed 
pleased  to  question  and  to  listen,  and  presently  broke  into  a 
rapture,  swearing  that  he  was  in  love  with  an  angel.  Young 


90 


MR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


lovers  may,  it  is  feared,  fall  into  grievous  sin  by  permitting 
themselves  these  extravagances  of  speech  and  thought;  yet  it 
is  hard  to  keep  them  sober,  and  besides  (because  every  sin  in 
man  meeteth  with  its  correspondent  in  woman),  if  the  lover  be 
extravagant,  the  maiden  takes  pleasure  in  his  extravagance. 
To  call  a mortal,  full  of  imperfections,  an  angel,  is  little  short 
of  blasphemy.  Yet  I heard  it  with,  I confess,  a secret  pleas- 
ure. We  know  ourselves  and  the  truth  concerning  ourselves; 
we  do  not  deceive  ourselves  as  to  our  imperfections;  yet  we 
are  pleased  that  our  lovers  should  so  speak  and  think  of  us  as 
if  we  were  angels  indeed. 

Eobin  told  me,  presently  ceasing  his  extravagances  for 
awhile,  that  he  was  certain  something  violent  was  on  foot. 
To  be  sure,  everybody  expected  so  much.  He  said,  moreover, 
that  he  believed  Humphrey  had  certain  knowledge  of  what  was 
going  to  happen;  that  before  they  left  the  Low  Countries 
Humphrey  had  been  present  at  a meeting  of  the  exiles  in  Eot- 
terdam,  where  it  was  well  known  that  Lord  Argyll’s  expedi- 
tion was  resolved  upon;  that  he  had  been  much  engaged  in 
London  after  their  return,  and  had  paid  many  visits,  the  nat- 
ure of  which  he  kept  secret;  and  that  on  the  road  there  was 
not  a town  and  scarcely  a village  where  Humphrey  had  not 
some  one  to  visit. 

“ My  dear,”  he  said,  “ Humphrey  is  slight  as  to  stature  and 
strength,  but  he  carries  a stout  heart.  There  is  no  man  more 
bitter  against  the  king  than  he,  and  none  more  able  if  his 
counsels  were  listened  to.  Monmouth,  I am  certain,  purposes 
to  head  an  expedition  into  England  like  that  of  Lord  Argyll  in 
Scotland.  The  history  of  England  hath  many  instances  of 
such  successful  attempts.  King  Stephen,  King  Henry  IV., 
King  Henry  VII.,  are  all  examples.  If  Monmouth  lands, 
Humphrey  will  join  him,  I am  sure.  And  I,  my  dear — 99 
He  paused. 

“ And  you  too,  Eobin?  Oh!  must  you  too  go  forth  to  fight? 
And  yet,  if  the  duke  doth  head  a rising  all  the  world  would 
follow.  Oh,  to  drive  away  the  Papist  king  and  restore  our  lib- 
erty!”^ 

4 c My  dear,  I will  do  what  my  grandfather  approves.  If  it 
be  my  duty  to  go,  he  will  send  me  forth. 99 

I had  almost  forgotten  to  say  that  madame  took  me  to  her 
own  chamber,  where  she  opened  a box  and  pulled  out  a gold 
chain,  very  fine.  This  she  hung  about  my  neck,  and  bade  me 
sit  down,  and  gave  me  some  sound  advice,  reminding  me  that 
woman  was  the  weaker  vessel,  and  should  look  to  her  husband 
not  only  to  love  and  cherish  her,  but  also  to  prevent  her  from 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


91 


falling  into  certain  grievous  sins,  as  of  temper,  deceitfulness, 
vanity,  and  the  like,  to  which  the  weaker  nature  is  ever  prone. 
Many  other  things  she  said,  being  a good  and  virtuous  woman, 
but  I pass  them  over. 

After  supper  we  went  again  into  the  garden,  the  weather 
being  warm  and  fine.  The  sun  went  down,  but  the  sky  was 
full  of  light,  though  it  was  past  nine  o’clock  and  time  for  me 
to  go  home  and  to  bed.  Yet  he  lingered.  The  birds  had  gone 
to  sleep;  there  was  no  whisper  of  the  wind;  the  village  was  in 
silence.  And  Robin  was  whispering  in  my  ear.  I remember 
— I remember  the  very  tones  of  his  voice,  which  was  low  and 
sweet.  I remember  the  words  he  said:  “ Sweet  love!  Sweet 
love!  How  could  I live  so  long  without  thee?”  I remember 
my  swelling  heart  and  my  glowing  cheeks.  Oh,  Robin — 
Robin!  Oh,  poor  heart!  poor  maid!  The  memory  of  this  one 
day  was  nearly  all  thou  hadst  to  feed  upon  for  so  long — so  long 
a time! 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Suddenly  we  heard  footsteps,  as  of  those  who  are  running, 
and  my  father’s  voice  speaking  loud. 

“ Sing,  oh,  daughter  of  Zion!  Shout,  oh,  Israel!  Be  glad 
and  rejoice  with  all  the  heart — !” 

“ Now,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,”  cried  Sir  Christopher, 
“ what  meaneth  this?” 

“ The  arm  of  the  Lord!  The  deliverance  of  Israel!” 

He  burst  upon  us  dragging  a man  with  him  by  the  arm. 
In  the  twilight  I could  only  see,  at  first,  that  it  was  a broad, 
thickset  man.  But  my  father’s  brave  form  looked  taller  as 
he  waved  his  arms  and  cried  aloud.  Had  he  been  clad  in  a 
sheep-skin  he  would  have  resembled  one  of  those  ancient 
prophets  whose  words  were  always  in  his  mouth. 

“ Grood  friend,”  said  Sir  Christopher,  “ what  meaneth  these 
cries?  Whom  have  we  here?” 

Then  the  man  with  my  father  stepped  forward  and  took  off 
his  hat.  Why,  I knew  him  at  once,  though  it  was  ten  years 
since  I had  seen  him  last.  ’Twas  my  brother  Barnaby — none 
other — come  home  again.  He  was  now  a great  strong  man — 
a stouter  have  I never  seen,  though  he  was  somewhat  under 
the  middle  height,  broad  in  the  shoulders,  and  thick  of  chest. 
Beside  him  Robin,  though  reasonable  in  breadth,  showed  like 
a slender  sapling.  But  he  had  still  the  same  good-natured 
face,  though  now  much  broader.  It  needed  no  more  than  the 
first  look  to  know  my  brother  Barnaby  again. 


92 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


“ Barnaby,”  I cried,  “ Barnaby,  hast  thou  forgotten  me?^ 
I caught  one  of  his  great  hands — never,  surely,  were  there  big- 
ger hands  than  Barnaby’s!  “ Hast  thou  forgotten  me?” 

“ Why,”  he  said,  slowly — ’twas  ever  a boy  slow  of  speech 
and  of  understanding — “belike,  ’tis  sister.”  He  kissed  my 
forehead.  “ It  is  sister,”  he  said,  as  if  he  were  tasting  a cup 
of  ale  and  was  pronouncing  on  its  quality.  “ How  dost  thou, 
sister?  Bravely,  I hope.  Thou  art  grown,  sister.  I have 
seen  my  mother,  and — and — she  does  bravely  too;  though  I 
left  her  crying.  ’Tis  their  way,  the  happier  they  be.” 

“ Barnaby?”  said  Sir  Christopher,  “is  it  thou,  scapegrace? 
Where  hast  thou — But  first  tell  us  what  has  happened. 
Briefly,  man.” 

“ In  two  words,  sir:  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  landed  the  day 
before  yesterday  at  Lyme-Begis  with  my  Lord  Grey  and  a com- 
pany of  a hundred — of  whom  I was  one.” 

The  duke  had  landed!  Then  what  Robin  expected  had  come 
to  pass!  and  my  brother  Barnaby  was  with  the  insurgents!  My 
heart  beat  fast. 

“ The  Duke  of  Monmouth  hath  landed!”  Sir  Christopher 
repeated,  and  sat  down  again,  as  one  who  knows  not  what  may 
be  the  meaning  of  the  news. 

“ Ay,  sir,  the  duke  hath  landed.  We  left  Holland  on  the 
24th  of  May,  and  we  made  the  coast  at  Lyme  at  day-break  on 
Thursday  the  11th.  ’Tis  now,  I take  it,  Saturday.  The 
duke  had  with  him  on  board  ship  Lord  Grey,  Mr.  Andrew 
Fletcher  of  Saltoun,  Mr.  Hey  wood  Dare  of  Taunton — ” 

“I  know  the  man,”  said  Sir  Christopher,  “for  an  impu- 
dent, loud-tongued  fellow.” 

“ Perhaps  he  was,  sir,”  said  Barnaby,  gravely.  “ Perhaps 
he  was,  but  now — ” 

“ How  ‘ was  ’?” 

“He  was  shot  on  Thursday  evening  by  Mr.  Fletcher  for 
offering  him  violence  with  a cane,  and  is  now  dead.” 

“ ’Tis  a bad  beginning.  Go  on,  Barnaby.” 

“ The  duke  had  also  Mr.  Ferguson,  Colonel  Venner,  Mr. 
Chamberlain,  and  others  whom  I can  not  remember.  First 
we  set  Mr.  Dare  and  Mr.  Chamberlain  ashore  at  Seatown, 
whence  they  were  to  carry  intelligence  of  the  rising  to  the 
duke’s  friends.  The  duke  landed  at  seven  o’clock  with  his 
company,  in  seven  boats.  First  he  fell  on  his  knees  and 
prayed  aloud.  Then  he  drew  his  sword,  and  we  all  marched 
after  to  the  market-place,  where  he  raised  his  flag  and  caused 
the  declaration  to  be  read.  Here  it  is,  your  honor.”  He 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM.  93 

lugged  out  a copy  of  the  declaration,  which  Sir  Christopher 
put  aside,  saying  that  he  would  read  it  in  the  morning. 

44  Then  we  tossed  our  hats  and  shouted,  4 A Monmouth!  A 
Monmouth  !'  Sixty  stout  young  fellows  ^listed  on  the  spot. 
Then  we  divided  our  forces,  and  began  to  land  the  cannon — 
four  pretty  pieces  as  you  could  wish  to  see — and  the  arms,  of 
which  I doubt  if  we  have  enough,  and  the  powder — two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  barrels.  The  duke  lay  on  Thursday  night  at 
The  George.  Next  day,  before  dawn,  the  country  people 
began  flocking  in.” 

44  What  gentlemen  have  come  in?” 

44  I know  not,  sir — my  duty  was  most  of  the  day  on  board. 
In  the  evening  I received  leave  to  ride  home,  and,  indeed.  Sir 
Christopher,  to  carry  the  duke's  declaration  to  yourself.  And 
now  we  shall  be  well  rid  of  the  king,  the  Pope,  and  the  devil!” 

64  Because,”  said  my  father,  solemnly — 4 4 because  with  lies 
ye  have  made  the  hearts  of  the  righteous  sad  whom  I have  not 
made  sad.” 

44  And  what  doest  thou  among  this  goodly  company,  friend 
Barnaby?'' 

44 1 am  to  be  a captain  in  one  of  the  regiments,”  said  Bar- 
naby,  grinning  with  pride;  44  though  a sailor,  yet  can  I fight 
with  the  best.  My  colonel  is  Mr.  Holmes,  and  my  major  Mr. 
Parsons.  On  board  the  frigate  I was  master,  and  navigated 
her.” 

44  There  will  be  knocks,  Barnaby;  knocks,  I doubt.” 

44  By  your  honor's  leave,  I have  been  where  knocks  were* 
flying  for  ten  years,  and  I will  take  my  share,  remembering 
still  the  treatment  of  my  father  and  the  poverty  of  my 
mother.  ” 

44  It  is  rebellion,  Barnaby! — rebellion!” 

44  Why,  sir,  Oliver  Cromwell  was  a rebel.  And  your  honor 
fought  in  the  army  of  the  Earl  of  Essex — and  what  was  he  but 
a rebel?” 

I wondered  to  hear  my  brother  speak  with  so  much  boldness, 
who  ten  years  before  had  bowed  low  and  pulled  his  hair  in  pres- 
ence of  his  honor.  Yet  Sir  Christopher  seemed  to  take  this 
boldness  in  good  part. 

44  Barnaby,”  he  said,  44  thou  art  a stout  and  proper  lad,  and 
I doubt  not  thy  courage — nay,  I see  it  in  thy  face,  which  hath 
% resolution  in  it,  and  yet  is  modest;  no  ruffier  or  boaster  art 
thou,  friend  Barnaby.  Yet — yet — if  rebellion  fail — even  rebel- 
lion in  a just  cause — then  those  who  rise  lose  their  lives  in 
vain,  and  the  cause  is  lost,  until  better  times.  ” This  he  said 
as  one  who  speaketh  to  himself.  I saw  him  look  upon  his 


94 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


grandson.  “ The  king  is — a Papist,”  he  said,  “ that  is  most 
true.  A Papist  should  not  be  suffered  to  rule  this  country. 
And  yet  to  rise  in  rebellion!  Have  a care,  lad!  What  if  the 
time  be  not  yet  ripe?  How  know  we  who  will  join  the  duke?” 

“ The  people  are  flocking  to  his  standard  by  thousands,” 
said  Barnaby.  “ When  I rode  away  last  night  the  duke's 
secretaries  were  writing  down  their  names  as  fast  as  they  could 
be  entered;  they  were  landing  the  arms  and  already  exercising 
the  recruits.  And  such  a spirit  they  show,  sir,  it  would  do 
your  heart  good  only  once  to  witness!” 

Now,  as  I looked  at  Barnaby,  I became  aware  that  he  was 
not  only  changed  in  appearance,  but  that  he  was  also  very 
finely  dressed,  namely,  in  a scarlet  coat  and  a sword  with  a 
silken  sash,  with  laced  ruffles,  a gold-laced  hat,  a great  wig, 
white  breeches,  and  a flowered  waistcoat.  In  the  light  of  day, 
as  I afterward  discovered,  there  were  stains  of  wine  visible  upon 
the  coat,  and  the  ruffles  were  torn,  and  the  waistcoat  had 
marks  upon  it  as  of  tar.  One  doth  not,  to  be  sure,  expect  in 
the  sailing-master  of  a frigate  the  same  neatness  as  in  a gallant 
of  St.  James's.  Yet  our  runaway  lad  must  have  prospered. 

“ What  doth  the  duke  intend?”  Sir  Christopher  asked  him. 

“ Indeed,  sir,  I know  not.  'Tis  said  by  some  that  he  will 
raise  the  West  Country;  and  by  some  that  he  will  march  north 
into  Cheshire,  where  he  hath  many  friends;  and  by  others  that 
he  will  march  upon  London,  and  call  upon  all  good  Protestants 
to  rise  and  join  him.  We  look  to  have  an  army  of  twenty 
thousand  within  a week.  As  for  the  king,  it  is  doubted  whether 
he  can  raise  a paltry  five  thousand  to  meet  us.  Courage, 
dad  ” — he  dared  to  call  his  father,  the  Rev.  Comfort  Eykin, 
Doctor  of  Divinity,  “ dad!” — and  he  clapped  him  lustily  upon 
the  shoulder;  “ thou  shalt  mount  the  pulpit  yet;  ay,  of  West- 
minster Abbey  if  it  so  please  you!” 

His  father  paid  no  heed  to  this  conversation,  being  wrapped 
in  his  own  thoughts. 

6 4 1 know  not,”  said  Sir  Christopher,  “ what  to  think.  The 
news  is  sudden.  And  yet — and  yet — ” 

“ We  waste  time,”  cried  my  father,  stamping  his  foot. 
“ Oh,  we  waste  the  time  talking.  What  helps  it  to  talk? 
Every  honest  man  must  now  be  up  and  doing.  Why,  it  is  a 
plain  duty  laid  upon  us.  The  finger  of  Heaven  is  visible,  I 
say,  in  this.  Out  of  the  very  sins  of  Charles  Stuart  hath  the 
instrument  for  the  destruction  of  his  race  been  forged.  A 
plain  duty,  I say.  As  for  me,  I must  preach  and  ex- 
hort. As  for  my  son,  who  was  dead  and  yet  liveth  ” — he 
laid  his  hand  upon  Barnaby 's  shoulder — “ time  was  when  I 


EOR  FAITH  AtfD  FREEDOM. 


prayed  that  he  might  become  a godly  ministe? of  God’s  Word. 
Now  I perceive  clearly  that  the  Lord  hath  ways  of  His  own. 
My  son  shall  fight  and  I shall  preach.  Perhaps  he  will  rise 
and  become  another  Cromwell!”  Barnaby  grinned. 

“ Sir/’  said  my  father,  turning  hotly  upon  his  honor,  “ I 
perceive  that  thou  art  lukewarm.  If  the  cause  be  the  Lord’s, 
what  matter  for  the  chances?  The  issue  is  in  the  hands  of  the 
Lord.  As  for  me  and  my  household,  we  will  serve  the  Lord. 
Yea,  I freely  offer  myself  and  my  son  and  my  wife  and  my 
daughter — even  my  tender  daughter — to  the  cause  of  the 
Lord.  Young  men  and  maidens,  old  men  and  children,  the 
voice  of  the  Lord  calleth!” 

Nobody  made  reply;  my  father  looked  before  him  as  if  he 
saw  in  the  twilight  of  the  summer  night  a vision  of  what  was 
to  follow.  His  face,  as  he  gazed,  changed;  his  eyes,  which 
were  fierce  and  fiery,  softened;  his  lips  smiled.  Then  he 
turned  his  face  and  looked  upon  each  of  us  in  turn — upon  his 
son  and  upon  his  wife  and  upon  me,  upon  Robin  and  upon  Sir 
Christopher.  “ It  is,  indeed,”  he  said,  “ the  will  of  the  Lord. 
Why,  what  though  the  end  be  violent  death  to  me,  and  to  all 
of  us  ruin  and  disaster?  We  do  but  share  the  afflictions  fore- 
told in  the  Vision  of  the  Basket  of  Summer  Fruit.  What  is 
death?  What  is  the  loss  of  earthly  things  compared  with  what 
shall  follow  to  those  who  obey  the  voice  that  calls?  Children, 
let  us  up  and  be  doing.  As  for  me,  I shall  have  a season  of 
freedom  before  I die.  For  twenty-five  years  have  I been  muz- 
zled, or  compelled  to  whisper  and  mutter  in  corners  and  hid- 
, ing-places.  I have  been  a dumb  dog.  I,  whose  heart  was  full 
and  overflowing  with  the  sweet  and  precious  Word  of  God;  I, 
to  whom  it  is  not  life  but  death  to  sit  in  silence!  Now  I shall 
deliver  my  soul  before  I die.  Sirs,  the  Lord  hath  given  to 
every  man  a weapon  or  two  with  which  to  fight.  To  me  he 
hath  given  an  eye  and  a tongue  for  discoursing  and  proclaim- 
ing the  word  of  sacred  doctrine.  I have  been  muzzled — a 
dumb  dog — though  sometimes  I have  been  forced  to  climb 
among  the  hills  and  speak  to  the  bending  tree-tops.  Now  I 
shall  be  free  again,  and  I will  speak,  and  all  the  ends  of  the 
earth  shall  hear.  ” 

His  eyes  gleamed,  and  he  panted  and  gasped,  and  waved  his 

arms. 

“ As  for  sister,  dad,”  said  Barnaby,  “ she  and  mother  may 
bide  at  home.” 

“ No;  they  shall  go  with  me.  I offer  my  wife,  my  son,  my 
daughter,  and  myself  to  the  cause  of  the  Lord.” 

u A camp  is  but  a rough  place  for  a woman,”  said  Barnaby. 


8 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


“ She  is  offered;  she  is  dedicated;  she  shall  go  with  us. 99 
I know  not  what  was  in  his  mind,  or  why  he  wished  that  I 
should  go  with  him,  unless  it  was  a desire  to  give  everything 
that  he  had — to  hold  back  nothing — to  the  Lord;  therefore  he 
would  give  his  children  as  well  as  himself.  As  for  me,  my 
heart  glowed  to  think  that  I was  even  worthy  to  join  in  such  a 
cause.  What  could  a woman  do?  But  that  I should  find  out. 

“ Robin,  ” I whispered,  “ Tis  Religion  calls.  If  I am  to  be 
among  the  followers  of  the  duke-,  thou  wilt  not  remain  behind?” 

“ Child  99 — it  was  my  mother  who  whispered  to  me;  I had 
not  seen  her  coming — “ child,  let  us  obey  him.  Perhaps  it 
will  be  better  for  him  if  we  are  at  his  side.  And  there  is  Bar- 
naby.  But  we  must  not  be  in  their  way.  We  shall  find  a 
place  to  sit  and  wait.  Alas,  that  my  son  hath  returned  to  us 
only  to  go  fighting!  We  will  go  with  them,  daughter.” 

“We  should  be  better  without  women,”  said  Barnaby, 
grumbling;  “ I would  as  lief  have  a woman  on  shipboard  as  in 
the  camp.  To  be  sure,  if  he  has  set  his  heart  upon  it — but 
then,  he  will  not  stay  long  in  camp,  where  the  cursing  of  the 
men  is  already  loud  enough  to  scare  a preacher  out  of  his  cas- 
sock. Dad,  1 say — 99  But  my  father  was  fallen  again  into  a 
kind  of  rapture,  and  heard  nothing. 

“ When  doth  the  duke  begin  his  march?”  he  said,  suddenly. 

“ I know  not;  but  we  shall  find  him,  never  fear.” 

“ I must  have  speech  with  him  at  the  earliest  possible  time. 
Hours  are  precious,  and  we  waste  them — we  waste  them. 9 9 

“ Well,  sir,  it  is  bed-time.  To-morrow  we  can  ride — unless, 
because  it  is  the  Sabbath,  you  would  choose  to  wait  till  Mon- 
day. And  as  to  the  women,  by  your  leave,  it  is  madness  to 
bring  them  to  a camp.” 

“Wait  till  Monday!  are  thou  mad,  Barnaby?  Why,  I have 
things  to  tell  the  duke.  Up!  let  us  ride  all  night.  To-mor- 
row is  the  Sabbath,  and  I will  preach;  yea,  I will  preach.  My 
soul  longeth — yea,  even  it  fainteth — for  the  courts  of  the  Lord. 
Quick!  quick!  let  us  mount  and  ride  all  night.” 

At  this  moment  Humphrey  joined  us. 

“Lads,”  said  Sir  Christopher,  “you  are  fresh  from  Hol- 
land. Knew  you  aught  of  this?” 

“ Sir,”  said  Humphrey,  “ I have  already  told  Doctor  Eykin 
what  to  expect.  I knew  that  the  duke  was  coming.  Robin 
did  not  know,  because  I would  not  drag  him  into  the  con- 
spiracy. I knew  that  the  duke  was  coming,  and  that  without 
delay.  I have  myself  had  speech  in  Amsterdam  with  his 
grace,  who  comes  to  restore  the  Protestant  religion  and  to  give 
freedom  of  worship  to  all  good  Protestant  people.  His  friends 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


9? 


have  promises  of  support  everywhere.  Indeed,  sir,  I think  that 
the  expedition  is  well  planned,  and  is  certain  of  support.  Suc- 
cess is  in  the  hands  of  the  Lord;  but  we  do  not  expect  that 
there  will  be  any  serious  opposition.  With  submission,  sir,  I 
am  under  promise  to  join  the  duke.  I came  over  in  advance 
to  warn  his  friends,  as  I rode  from  London,  of  his  approach. 
Thousands  are  waiting  in  readiness  for  him.  But,  sir,  of  all 
this,  I repeat,  Robin  knew  nothing.  I have  been  for  three 
months  in  the  councils  of  those  who  desire  to  drive  forth  the 
Popish  king,  but  Robin  have  I kept  in  the  dark.” 

“ Humphrey,”  said  Robin,  “ am  not  I a Protestant?” 


CHAPTER  XY. 

A NIGHT  AND  MORNING  AT  LYME-REGIS. 

When  I read  of  men  possessed  by  some  spirit — that  is  to 
say,  compelled  to  go  hither  and  thither  where,  but  for  the 
spirit,  they  would  not  go,  and  to  say  things  which  they  would 
not  otherwise  have  said — I think  of  our  midnight  ride  to  Lyme, 
and  of  my  father  then,  and  of  the  three  weeks'  madness  which 
followed.  It  was  some  spirit — whether  of  good  or  evil  I can 
not  say,  and  I dare  not  so  much  as  to  question — which  seized 
him.  That  he  hurried  away  to  join  the  duke  on  the  first  news 
of  his  landing,  without  counting  the  cost  or  weighing  the 
chances,  is  easy  to  be  understood.  Like  Humphrey,  he  was 
led  by  his  knowledge  of  the  great  numbers  who  hated  the 
Catholic  religion  to  believe  that  they,  like  himself,  would  rise 
with  one  accord.  He  also  remembered  the  successful  rebellion 
against  the  first  Charles,  and  expected  nothing  less  than  a 
repetition  of  that  success.  This  I knew  was  what  the  exiles  in 
• Holland  thought  and  believed.  The  duke,  they  said,  was  the 
darling  of  the  people;  he  was  the  Protestant  champion;  who 
would  not  press  forward  when  he  should  draw  the  sword? 
But  what  man  in  his  sober  senses  would  have  dragged  his  wife 
and  daughter  with  him  to  the  godless  riot  of  a camp?  Perhaps 
he  wanted  them  to  share  his  triumph,  to  listen  while  he  moved 
the  soldiers  as  that  ancient  hermit -Peter  moved  the  people  to 
the  Holy  Wars?  But  I know  not.  He  said  that  I was  to  be, 
like  Jephthah's  daughter,  consecrated  to  the  cause  of  the  Lord; 
and  what  he  meant  by  that  I never  understood. 

He  was  so  eager  to  start  upon  the  journey  that  he  would  not 
wait  a moment.  The  horses  must  be  saddled;  we  must  mount 
and  away.  Note  that  they  were  Sir  Christopher's  horses 
which  we  borrowed;  this  also  was  noted  afterward  for  the  ruin 


98 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


of  that  good  old  man,  with  other  particulars;  as  that  Mon- 
mouth's Declaration  was  found  in  the  house  (Barnaby  brought 
it);  one  of  Monmouth's  captains,  Barnaby  Eykin  by  name, 
had  ridden  from  Lynne  to  Bradford  in  order  to  see  him;  he 
was  a friend  of  the  preacher  Dr.  Eykin;  he  was  grandfather  to 
one  of  the  rebels  and  grand-uncle  to  another;  with  many  other 
things.  But  these  were  enough. 

“ Surely,  surely,  friend,"  said  Sir  Christopher,  “ thou  wilt 
not  take  wife  and  daughter?  They  can  not  help  the  cause; 
they  have  no  place  in  a camp. " 

“ Young  men  and  maidens:  one  with  another.  Quick!  we 
waste  the  time. " 

“ And  to  ride  all  night,  consider,  man — all  night  long!" 

“ What  is  a night?  They  will  have  all  eternity  to  rest  in." 

“ He  hath  set  his  heart  upon  it,"  said  my  mother.  “ Let 
us  go;  a night's  weariness  will  not  do  much  harm.  Let  us  go. 
Sir  Christopher,  without  further  parley." 

“ Go,  then,  in  the  name  of  God,"  said  the  old  man. 
“ Child,  give  me  a kiss."  He  took  me  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
me  on  the  forehead.  “ Thou  art,  then,"  he  said,  tenderly, 
“devoted  to  the  Protestant  cause.  Why,  thou  art  already 
promised  to  a Protestant  since  this  morning;  forget  not  that 
promise,  child.  Humphrey  and  Barnaby  will  protect  thee — 
and—" 

“ Sir,"  said  Robin,  “ by  your  leave,  I alone  have  the  right 
to  go  with  her  and  to  protect  her." 

66  Nay,  Robin,"  I said,  “stay  here  until  Sir  Christopher 
himself  bids  thee  go.  That  will  be  very  soon.  Remember 
thy  promise.  We  did  not  know,  Robin,  an  hour  ago  that  the 
promise  would  be  claimed  so  soon.  Robin  " — for  he  mur- 
mured— “ I charge  thee,  remain  at  home  until — " 

“ I promise  thee,  sweetheart."  But  he  hung  his  head  and 
looked  ashamed. 

Sir  Christopher,  holding  my  hand,  stepped  forth  upon  the 
grass  and  looked  upward  into  the  clear  sky,  where  in  the  trans- 
parent twilight  we  could  see  a few  stars  twinkling. 

“ This,  friend  Eykin — this,  Humphrey,"  he  said,  gravely, 
“is  a solemn  night  for  all.  No  more  fateful  day  hath  ever 
come  to  any  of  us;  no!  not  that  day  when  I joined  Hampden's 
new  regiment  and  followed  with  the  army  of  Lord  Essex. 
Granted  that  we  have  a righteous  cause,  we  know  not  that  our 
leader  hath  in  him  the  root  of  the  matter.  To  rise  against  the 
king  is  a most  weighty  matter — fatal  if  it  fail,  a dangerous 
precedent  if  it  succeed.  Civil  war  is,  of  all  wars,  the  most 
grievous;  to  fight  under  a leader  who  doth  not  live  after  the 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM.  99 

laws  of  God,  methinks,  most  dangerous.  The  duke  hath 
lighted  a torch  which  will  spread  flames  everywhere — " 

“ It  is  the  voice  of  the  Lord  which  calleth  us!”  my  father 
interrupted.  “ To-morrow  I shall  speak  again  to  God's 
elect." 

“ Sir,"  said  Humphrey,  very  seriously,  “ I pray  you  think 
not  that  this  enterprise  hath  been  rashly  entered  upon,  nor 
that  we  depend  upon  the  judgment  of  the  duke  alone.  It  is 
unhappily  true  that  his  life  is  sinful,  and  so  is  that  of  Lord 
Grey,  who  hath  deserted  his  lawful  wife  for  her  sister.  But 
those  who  have  pushed  on  the  enterprise  consider  that  the  duke 
is  at  least  a true  Protestant.  They  have,  moreover,  received 
solid  assurances  of  support  from  every  quarter.  You  have 
been  kept  in  the  dark  from  the  beginning  at  my  own  earnest 
request,  because,  though  I knew  full  well  your  opinion,  I 
would  not  trouble  your  peace  or  endanger  your  person.  Suffer 
us,  then,  to  depart,  and,  for  yourself,  do  nothing;  and  keep — 
oh!  sir,  I entreat  you — keep  Robin  at  home  until  our  success 
leaves  no  room  for  doubt." 

“ Go,  then — go,"  said  Sir  Christopher.  “ I have  grievous 
misgivings  that  all  is  not  well.  But  go,  and  Heaven  bless  the 
cause!" 

Robin  kissed  me,  whispering  that  he  would  follow,  and  that 
before  many  days;  and  so  we  mounted  and  rode  forth.  In 
such  hot  haste  did  we  depart  that  we  took  with  us  no  change 
of  raiment  or  any  provision  for  the  journey  at  all,  save  that 
Barnaby,  who,  as  I afterward  found,  never  forgot  the  pro- 
visions, found  time  to  get  together  a small  parcel  of  bread  and 
meat,  and  a flask  of  Malmsey,  with  which  to  refresh  our  spirits 
later  on.  We  even  rode  away  without  any  money. 

My  father  rode  one  horse  and  my  mother  sat  behind  him; 
then  I followed,  Barnaby  marching  manfully  beside  me,  and 
Humphrey  rode  last.  The  ways  are  rough,  so  that  those  who 
ride,  even  by  daylight,  go  but  slowly;  and  we,  riding  between 
high  hedges,  went  much  too  slowly  for  my  father,  who,  if  he 
spoke  at  all,  cried  out  impatiently,  6 Quicker!  quicker!  we 
lose  the  time." 

He  sat  bending  over  the  horse's  head,  with  rounded  shoul- 
ders, his  feet  sticking  out  on  either  side,  his  long  white  hair 
and  his  ragged  cassock  floating  in  the  wind.  In  his  left  hand 
he  carried  his  Bible  as  a soldier  carries  his  sword;  on  his  head 
he  wore  the  black  silk  cap  in  which  he  daily  sat  at  work.  He 
was  praying  and  meditating;  he  was  preparing  the  sermon 
which  he  would  deliver  in  the  morning. 

Barnaby  plodded  on  beside  me;  night  or  day  made  no  differ 


100 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


ence  to  him.  He  slept  when  he  could,  and  worked  when  he 
must.  Sailors  keep  their  watch  day  and  night  without  any 
difference. 

“It  was  Sir  Christopher  that  I came  after,”  he  told  me 
presently.  “ Mr.  Dare — who  hath  since  been  killed  by  Mr. 
Fletcher — told  the  duke  that  if  Sir  Christopher  Challis  would 
only  come  into  camp,  old  as  he  is,  the  country  gentlemen  of 
his  opinions  would  follow  to  a man,  so  respected  is  he.  Well, 
he  will  not.  But  we  have  his  nephew,  Humphrey;  and,  if  I 
mistake  not,  we  shall  have  his  grandson — if  kisses  mean  any- 
thing. So  Bobin  is  thy  sweetheart,  sister  ; thou  art  indeed  a 
lucky  girl.  And  we  shall  have  dad  to  preach.  Well,  I know 
not  what  will  happen,  but  some  will  be  knocked  o'  the  head, 
and  if  dad  goes  in  the  way  of  knocks — But  whatever  hap- 
pens, he  will  get  his  tongue  again — and  so  he  will  be  happy.  ” 

“ As  for  preaching,”  he  went  on,  speaking  with  due  pauses, 
because  there  was  no  hurry,  and  he  was  never  one  of  those 
whose  words  flow  easily,  “ if  he  thinks  to  preach  daily,  as  they 
say  was  done  in  Cromwell's  time,  I doubt  if  he  will  find  many 
to  listen,  for  by  the  look  of  the  fellows  who  are  crowding  into 
camp  they  will  love  the  clinking  of  the  can  better  than  the 
division  of  the  text.  But  if  he  cause  his  friends  to  join,  he 
will  be  welcomed;  and  for  devoting  his  wife  and  daughter, 
that,  sister,  with  submission,  is  rank  nonsense,  and  the  sooner 
you  get  out  of  the  camp,  if  you  must  go  there,  the  better. 
Women  aboard  ship  are  bad  enough,  but  in  camp  they  are  the 
devil!” 

“ Barnaby,  speak  not  lightly  of  the  Evil  One.” 

“Where  shall  we  bestow  you  when  the  fighting  comes? 
Well,  it  shall  be  in  some  safe  place.” 

“ Oh,  Barnaby!  will  there  be  fighting?” 

“ Good  lack,  child!  what  else  will  there  be?” 

“ As  the  walls  of  Jericho  fell  down  at  the  blast  of  the  trum- 
pet, so  the  king’s  armies  will  be  dispersed  at  the  approach  of 
the  Lord's  soldiers.  ” 

“ That  was  a long  time  ago,  sister.  There  is  now  no  trum- 
pet-work employed  in  war,  and  no  priests  on  the  march,  but 

Slenty  of  fighting  to  be  done  before  anything  is  accomplished. 

>ut  have  no  fear.  The  country  is  rising.  They  are  sick  at 
heart  already  of  a Popish  king.  I say  not  that  it  will  be  easy 
work;  but  it  can  be  done,  and  it  will  be  done,  before  we  all  sit 
down  again.” 

“ And  what  will  happen  when  it  is  done?” 

“ Truly,  I know  not.  When  one  king  is  sent  a-packing, 
they  put  up  another,  I suppose.  My  father  shall  have  the 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


101 


biggest  church  in  the  country  to  preach  in;  Humphrey  will  he 
made  physician  to  the  new  king  — nothing  less;  you  shall 
marry  Bobin,  and  he  shall  be  made  a duke  or  a lord  at  least; 
and  I shall  have  command  of  the  biggest  ship  in  the  king’s 
navy,  and  go  to  fight  the  Spaniards,  or  to  trade  for  negroes  on 
the  Guinea  coast.” 

“ And  suppose  the  duke  should  be  defeated?” 

“ Well,  sister,  if  he  is  defeated  it  will  go  hard  with  all  of  us. 
Those  who  are  caught  will  be  stabbed  with  a Bridport  dagger, 
as  they  say.  Ask  not  such  a question;  as  well  ask  a sailor 
what  will  happen  to  him  if  his  ship  is  cast  away.  Some  may 
escape  in  boats  and  some  by  swimming,  and  some  are  drowned, 
and  some  are  cast  upon  savage  shores.  Every  man  must  take 
his  chance.  Never  again  ask  such  a question.  Nevertheless, 
I fear  my  father  will  get  his  neck  as  far  in  the  noose  as  I my- 
self. But  remember,  sister,  do  you  and  my  mother  keep  snug. 
Let  others  carry  on  the  rebellion;  do  you  keep  snug.  For 
d’ye  see,  a man  takes  his  chance,  and  if  there  should  happen 
a defeat  and  the  rout  of  these  country  lads,  I could  e’en  scud 
myself  before  the  gale,  and  maybe  get  to  a seaport,  and  so 
aboard  and  away  while  the  chase  was  hot.  But  for  a woman 
— keep  snug,  I say,  therefore.  ” 

The  night,  happily,  was  clear  and  fine.  A slight  breeze  was 
blowing  from  the  north-west,  which  made  one  shiver,  yet  it  was 
not  too  cold.  I heard  the  screech-owl  once  or  twice,  which  caused 
me  to  tremble  more  than  the  cold.  The  road,  when  we  left 
the  highway,  which  is  not  often  mended  in  these  parts,  be- 
came a narrow  lane  full  of  holes  and  deep  ruts,  or  else  a track 
across  open  country.  But  Barnaby  knew  the  way. 

It  was  about  ten  of  the  clock  when  we  began  our  journey, 
and  it  was  six  in  the  morning  when  we  finished  it.  I suppose 
there  are  few  women  who  can  boast  of  having  taken  so  long  a 
ride  and  in  the  night.  Yet,  strange  to  say,  I felt  no  desire  to 
sleep;  nor  was  I wearied  with  the  jogging  of  the  horse,  but  was 
sustained  by  something  of  the  spirit  of  my  father.  A wonder- 
ful thing  it  seemed  to  me  that  a simple  country  maid,  such  as 
myself,  should  help  in  putting  down  the  Catholic  king; 
women  there  have  been  who  have  played  great  parts  in  history 
— Jael,  Deborah,  Judith,  and  Esther,  for  example;  but  that  I 
should  be  called  (since  then  I have  discovered  that  I was  not 
called),  this,  indeed,  seemed  truly  wonderful.  Then  I was  go- 
ing forth  to  witness  the*  array  of  a gallant  army  about  to  fight 
for  freedom  and  for  religion,  just  as  they  were  arrayed  forty 
years  before,  when  Sir  Christopher  was  a young  man  and  rode 
among  them. 


102 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


My  brother,  this  stout  Barnaby,  was  one  of  them;  my  father 
was  one  of  them;  Humphrey  was  one  of  them;  and  in  a little 
while  I was  very  sure  (because  Robin  would  feel  no  peace  of 
mind  if  I was  with  the  insurgents  and  he  was  still  at  home)  my 
lover  would  be  with  them  too.  And  I pictured  to  myself  a 
holy  and  serious  camp,  filled  with  godly  sober  soldiers  listening 
to  sermons  and  reading  the  Bible,  going  forth  to  battle  with 
hymns  upon  their  lips,  and  withal  so  valiant  that  at  their  very 
first  onset  the  battalions  of  the  king  would  be  shattered.  Alas! 
any  one  may  guess  the  foolish  thoughts  of  a girl  who  had  no 
knowledge  of  the  world  nor  any  experience.  Yet  all  my  life  I 
had  been  taught  that  resistance  was  at  times  a sacred  duty, 
and  that  the  Divine  Right  of  the  (so-called)  Lord's  anointed 
was  a vain  superstition.  So  far,  therefore,  was  I better  pre- 
pared than  most  women  for  the  work  in  hand. 

When  we  rode  through  Sherborne  all  the  folk  were  abed  and 
the  streets  were  empty.  From  Sherborne  our  way  lay  through 
Yetminster  and  Evershott  to  Beaminster,  where  we  watered 
and  rested  the  horses,  and  took  some  of  Barnaby's  provisions. 
The  country  through  which  we  rode  was  full  of  memories  of 
the  last  great  war.  The  castle  of  Sherborne  was  twice  be- 
sieged; once  by  Lord  Bedford,  when  the  Marquis  of  Hertford 
held  it  for  the  king.  That  siege  was  raised;  but  it  was  after- 
ward taken  by  Fairfax  with  its  garrison  of  six  hundred  soldiers, 
and  was  then  destroyed,  so  that  it  is  now  a heap  of  ruins;  and 
as  for  Beaminster,  the  town  hath  never  recovered  from  the 
great  fire  when  Prince  Maurice  held  it,  and  it  is  still  half  in 
ruins,  though  the  ivy  hath  grown  over  the  blackened  walls  of 
the  burned  houses.  The  last  great  war,  of  which  I had  heard 
so  much!  And  now,  perhaps  we  were  about  to  begin  another. 

It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  we  dismounted  at 
Beaminster.  My  mother  sat  down  upon  a bench  and  fell  in- 
stantly asleep.  My  father  walked  up  and  down  impatiently, 
as  grudging  every  minute.  Barnaby,  for  his  part,  made  a 
leisurely  and  comfortable  meal,  eating  liis  bread  and  meat — of 
which  I had  some — and  drinking  his  Malmsey  with  relish,  as 
if  we  were  on  a journey  of  pleasure  and  there  was  plenty  of 
time  for  leisurely  feeding.  Presently  he  arose  with  a sigh  (the 
food  and  wine  being  all  gone),  and  said  that  the  horses  being 
now  rested,  we  might  proceed.  So  he  lifted  my  mother  into 
her  seat  and  we  went  on  with  the  journey,  the  day  now  break- 
ing. 

The  way,  I say,  was  never  tedious  to  me,  for  I was  sustained 
by  the  novelty  and  the  strangeness  of  the  thing.  Although  I 
had  a thousand  things  to  ask  Barnaby,  it  must  be  confessed 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


103 


that  for  one  who  had  traveled  so  far  he  had  marvelous  little  to 
tell.  I dare  say  that  the  deck  and  cabins  of  a ship  are  much 
the  same  whether  she  be  on  the  Spanish  Main  or  in  the  British 
Channel*  and  sailors,  even  in  port,  are  never  an  observant 
race,  except  of  weather  and  so  forth.  It  was  strange,  how- 
ever, only  to  look  upon  him  and  to  mark  how  stout  a man  he 
was  grown  and  how  strong,  and  yet  how  he  still  spoke  like  the 
old  Barnaby,  so  good-natured  and  so  dull  with  his  book,  who 
was  daily  flogged  for  his  Latin  grammar,  and  bore  no  malice, 
but  prepared  himself  to  enjoy  the  present  when  the  flogging 
was  over,  and  not  to  anticipate  the  certain  repetition  of  the 
flogging  on  the  morrow.  He  spoke  in  the  same  slow  way,  as 
if  speech  were  a thing  too  precious  to  be  poured  out  quickly; 
and  there  was  always  sense  in  what  he  said  (Barnaby  was  only 
stupid  in  the  matter  of  syntax),  though  he  gave  me  not  such 
answers  as  I could  have  wished.  However,  he  confessed, 
little  by  little,  something  of  his  history  and  adventures. 
When  he  ran  away,  it  was,  as  we  thought,  to  the  port  of  Bris- 
tol, where  he  presently  found  a berth  as  cabin-boy  on  board  a 
West  Indiaman.  In  this  enviable  post — everybody  on  board 
has  a cuff  or  a kick  or  a rope  Vend  for  the  boy — he  continued 
for  some  time.  “ But/*  said  Barnaby,  “ you  are  not  to  think 
that  the  rope  Vend  was  half  so  bad  as  my  father’s  rod;  nor 
the  captain’s  oath  so  bad  as  my  father’s  rebuke;  nor  the  rough 
work  and  hard  fare  so  bad  as  the  Latin  syntax.”  Being  so 
strong,  and  a hearty,  willing  lad  to  boot,  he  was  quickly  pro- 
moted to  be  an  able  seaman,  when  there  were  no  more  ropeV 
endings  for  him.  Then,  having  an  ambition  above  his  station, 
and  not  liking  his  rude  and  ignorant  companions  of  the  fo’k’sle 
(which  is  the  fore  part  of  a ship,  where  the  common  sailors 
sleep  and  eat),  and  being  so  fortunate  as  to  win  the  good  graces 
of  the  supercargo  first  and  of  the  captain  next,  he  applied  his 
leisure  time  (when  he  had  any  leisure)  to  the  method  of  taking 
observations,  of  calculating  longitudes  and  latitudes,  his  knowl- 
edge of  arithmetic  having  fortunately  stuck  in  his  mind  longer 
than  that  of  Latin.  These  things,  I understand,  are  of  the 
greatest  use  to  a sailor  and  necessary  to  an  officer.  Armed 
with  this  knowledge,  and  the  recommendation  of  his  superiors, 
Barnaby  was  promoted  from  before  the  mast  and  became  what 
they  call  a mate,  and  so  rose  by  degrees,  until  he  was  at  last 
second  captain.  But  by  this  time  he  had  made  many  voyages 
to  the  West  Indies,  to  New  York  and  Baltimore,  and  to  the 
West  Coast  of  Africa,  in  the  service  of  his  owners,  and,  I dare 
say,  had  procured  much  wealth  for  them,  though  but  little 
for  himself.  And  being  at  Rotterdam  upon  his  owners*  busi- 


104 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


ness,  he  was  easily  persuaded — being  always  a stout  Protestant, 
and  desirous  to  strike  a blow  in  revenge  for  the  ejection  of 
his  father — to  engage  as  second  captain  on  board  the  frigate 
which  brought  over  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  and  his  company, 
and  then  to  join  him  on  his  landing.  This  was  the  sum  of 
what  he  had  to  tell  me.  He  had  seen  many  strange  people, 
wonderful  things,  and  monsters  of  the  deep;  Indians,  whom 
the  cruelty  and  avarice  of  the  Spaniards  have  well-nigh  de- 
stroyed, the  sugar  plantations  in  the  islands,  negro  slaves, 
negroes  free  in  their  own  country,  sharks  and  calamaries,  of 
which  I had  heard  and  read — he  had  seen  all  these  things,  and 
still  remained  (in  his  mind,  I mean)  as  if  he  had  seen  nothing. 
So  wonderfully  made  are  some  men’s  minds  that  whatever 
they  see  they  are  in  no  way  moved. 

I say,  then,  that  Barnaby  answered  my  questions,  as  we  rode 
along,  briefly,  and  as  if  such  matters  troubled  him  not.  When 
I asked  him,  for  example,  how  the  poor  miserable  slaves  liked 
being  captured  and  sold  and  put  on  board  ship  crowded  to- 
gether for  so  long  a voyage,  Barnaby  replied  that  he  did  not 
know,  his  business  being  to  buy  them  and  carry  them  across 
the  water,  and  if  they  rebelled  on  board  ship  to  shoot  them 
down  or  flog  them;  and  when  they  got  to  Jamaica  to  sell 
them;  where,  if  they  would  not  work,  they  would  be  flogged 
until  they  came  to  a better  mind.  If  a man  was  born  a negro. 
What  else,  he  asked,  could  he  expect? 

There  was  one  question  which  I greatly  desired  to  ask  him, 
but  dared  not.  It  concerned  the  welfare  of  his  soul.  Pres- 
ently, however,  Barnaby  answered  that  question  before  I 
put  it. 

“ Sister,”  he  said,  “my  mother’s  constant  affliction  con- 
cerning me,  before  I ran  away,  was  as  to  the  salvation  of  my 
soul.  And  truly,  that  seems  to  me  so  difficult  a thing  to  com- 
pass (like  navigation  to  an  unknown  port  over  an  unknown 
sea  set  everywhere  with  hidden  rocks  and  liable  to  sudden  gusts) 
that  I can  not  understand  how  a plain  man  can  ever  succeed  in 
it.  Wherefore  it  comforted  me  mightily  after  I got  to  sea  to 
learn  on  good  authority  that  there  is  another  way,  which,  com- 
pared with  my  father’s,  is  light  and  easy.  In  short,  sister, 
though  he  knows  it  not,  there  is  one  religion  for  lands-folk  and 
another  for  sailor-folk.  A sailor  (everybody  knows)  can  not 
get  so  much  as  a sail  bent  without  cursing  and  swearing — this, 
which  is  desperately  wicked  ashore,  counts  for  nothing  at  all 
afloat;  and  so  with  many  other  things;  and  the  long  and  the 
short  of  it  is  that  if  a sailor  does  his  duty,  lights  his  ship  like  a 
man,  is  true  to  his  owners,  and  faithful  to  his  messmates,  it 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


105 


matters  not  one  straw  whether  he  hath  daily  sworn  great  oaths, 
drunk  himself  (whenever  he  went  ashore)  as  helpless  as  a log, 
and  kissed  a pretty  girl  whenever  his  good-luck  gave  him  the 
chance — which  does,  indeed,  seldom  come  to  most  sailors  " — 
he  added  this  with  a deep  sigh — “ I say,  sister,  that  for  such  a 
sailor,  when  his  ship  goes  down  with  him,  or  when  he  gets  a 
grape-shot  through  his  vitals,  or  when  he  dies  of  fever,  as  hap- 
pens often  enough  in  the  hot  climates,  there  is  no  question  as 
to  the  safety  of  his  soul,  but  he  goes  straight  to  heaven.  What 
he  is  ordered  to  do  when  he  get  there, 99  said  Barnaby,  “ I can 
hot  sav;  but  it  will  be  something,  I doubt  not,  that  a sailor 
will  like  to  do.  Wherefore,  sister,  you  can  set  my  mother's 
heart — poor  soul! — quite  at  rest  on  this  important  matter. 
You  can  tell  her  that  you  have  conversed  with  me,  and  that  I 
have  that  very  same  inward  assurance  of  which  my  father 
speaks  so  much  and  at  such  length.  The  very  same  assurance 
it  is — tell  her  that.  And  beg  her  to  ask  me  no  questions  upon 
the  matter. 99 

“ Well,  Barnaby;  but  art  thou  sure — 99 

“ It  is  a heavenly  comfort,"  he  replied,  before  I had  time  to 
finish,  “ to  have  such  an  assurance.  For  why?  A man  that 
hath  it  doth  never  more  trouble  himself  about  what  shall  hap- 
pen to  him  after  he  is  dead.  Therefore  he  goes  about  his  duty 
with  an  easy  mind;  and  so,  sister,  no  more  upon  this  head  if 
you  love  me  and  desire  peace  of  mind  for  my  mother. 99 

So  nothing  more  was  said  upon  that  subject  then  or  after- 
ward. A sailor  to  be  exempted  by  right  of  his  calling  from 
the  religion  of  the  landsman!  'Tis  a strange  and  dangerous 
doctrine.  But  if  all  sailors  believe  it,  yet  how  can  it  be?  This 
question,  I confess,  is  too  high  for  me.  And  as  for  my  moth- 
er, I gave  her  Barnaby 's  message,  begging  her  at  the  same  time 
not  to  question  him  further.  And  she  sighed,  but  obeyed. 

Presently  Barnaby  asked  me  if  we  had  any  money. 

I had  none,  and  I knew  that  my  mother  could  have  but  lit- 
tle. Of  course  my  father  never  had  any.  I doubt  if  he  had 
possessed  a single  penny  since  his  ejection. 

“ Well,"  said  Barnaby,  “ I thought  to  give  my  money  to 
mother.  But  I now  perceive  that  if  she  has  it  she  will  give  it 
to  dad;  and  if  he  has  it,  he  will  give  it  all  to  the  duke  for  the 
cause — wherefore,  sister,  do  you  take  it  and  keep  it,  not  for 
me,  but  to  be  expended  as  seemeth  you  best."  He  lugged  out 
of  his  pocket  a heavy  bag.  “ Here  is  all  the  money  I have 
saved  in  ten  years.  Nay,  I am  not  as  some  sailors,  one  that 
can  not  keep  a penny  in  purse,  but  must  needs  fling  all  away. 
Here  are  two  hundred  and  fifty  gold  pieces.  Take  them,  sis- 


106 


FOR  FAITH  A HD  FREEDOM. 


ter.  Hang  the  bag  round  thy  neck,  and  never  part  with  it, 
day  or  night.  And  say  nothing  about  the  money  either  to 
mother  or  to  dad,  for  he  will  assuredly  do  with  it  as  I have 
said.  A time  may  come  when  thou  wilt  want  it.  ” 

Two  hundred  and  fifty  gold  pieces!  Was  it  possible  that 
Barnaby  could  be  so  rich?  I took  the  bag  and  hung  it  round 
my  waist — not  my  neck — by  the  string  which  he  had  tied  about 
the  neck,  and  as  it  was  covered  by  my  mantle,  nobody  ever 
suspected  that  I had  this  treasure.  In  the  end,  as  you  shall 
hear,  it  was  useful. 

It  was  now  broad  daylight,  and  the  sun  was  up.  As  we  drew 
near  Bridport  there  stood  a man  in  the  road,  armed  with  a 
halberd. 

“ Whither  go  ye,  good  people?”  he  asked. 

“ Friend,”  said  Barnaby,  flourishing  his  oaken  staff,  66  we 
ride  upon  our  own  business.  Stand  aside,  or  thou  mayest 
henceforth  have  no  more  business  to  do  upon  this  earth!” 

“ Bide  on,  then — ride  on,”  he  replied,  standing  aside  with 
great  meekness.  This  was  one  of  the  guards  whom  they  posted 
everywhere  upon  the  roads  in  order  to  stop  the  people  who 
were  flocking  to  the  camp.  In  this  way  many  were  sent  back, 
and  many  were  arrested  on  their  way  to  join  Monmouth. 

Now,  as  we  drew  near  to  Bridport,  the  time  being  about 
four  o’clock,  we  heard  the  firing  of  guns  and  a great  shouting. 

“ They  have  begun  the  fighting,”  said  Barnaby.  “ I knew 
it  would  not  be  long  a-coming. 

It  was,  in  fact,  their  first  engagement,  when  the  Dorsetshire 
Militia  were  driven  out  of  Bridport  by  the  duke’s  troops,  and 
there  would  have  been  a signal  victory  at  the  very  outset  but 
for  the  cowardice  of  Lord  Grey,  who  ran  away  with  the  horse. 

Well,  it  was  a strange  and  a wonderful  thing  to  think  that 
close  at  hand  were  men  killing  each  other  on  the  Sabbath;  yea, 
and  some  lying  wounded  on  the  roads;  and  that  civil  war  had 
again  begun. 

“ Let  us  push  on,”  said  Humphrey,  “ out  of  the  way  of 
these  troops.  They  are  but  country  lads  all  of  them.  If  they 
retreat  they  will  run;  and  if  they  run  they  will  be  seized  with 
a panic,  and  will  run  all  the  way  back  to  Lyme,  trampling  on 
everything  that  is  in  the  road.” 

This  was  most  excellent  advice,  which  we  followed,  taking 
an  upper  track  which  brought  us  into  the  high-road  a mile  or 
so  nearer  Oharmouth. 

1 do  not  think  there  can  be  anywhere  a finer  road  than  that 
which  runs  from  Oharmouth  to  Lyme.  It  runneth  over  high 
bids  sometimes  above  the  se(i  which  rolls  far  below,  and  some* 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


107 


times  above  a great  level  inland  plain,  the  name  of  which  I 
have  forgotten.  The  highest  of  the  hills  is  called  Golden  Cap; 
the  reason  why  was  plainly  shown  this  morning  when  the  sky 
was  clear  and  the  sun  was  shining  from  the  south-east  full  upon 
this  tall  pico.  When  we  got  into  this  road  we  found  it  full  of 
young  fellows,  lusty  and  well-conditioned,  all  marching,  run- 
ning, walking,  shouting,  and  singing  on  their  way  to  join  Mon- 
mouth. Some  were  adorned  with  dowers,  some  wore  the  blue 
favor  of  the  duke,  some  had  cockades  in  their  hats,  and  some 
again  were  armed  with  musket  or  with  sword;  some  carried 
pikes,  some  knives  tied  on  to  long  poles,  some  had  nothing 
but  thick  cudgels,  which  they  brandished  valiantly.  At  sight 
of  these  brave  fellows  my  father  lifted  his  head  and  waved  his 
hand,  crying,  66  A Monmouth!  a Monmouth!  Follow  me, 
brave  lads!” — just  as  if  he  had  been  a captain  encouraging  his 
men  to  charge. 

The  church  of  Lyme  standeth  high  upon  the  cliff  which 
faces  the  sea;  it  is  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  town,  and  before 
you  get  to  the  church,  on  the  way  from  Charmouth,  there  is  a 
broad  field  also  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  It  was  this  field  that 
was  the  first  camp  of  Monmouth's  men.  There  were  no  tents 
for  the  men  to  lie  in,  but  there  were  wagons  filled,  I suppose, 
with  munitions  of  war;  there  were  booths  where  things  were 
sold,  such  as  hot  sausages  fried  over  a charcoal  fire,  fried  fish, 
lobsters,  and  periwinkles,  cold  bacon  and  pork,  bread,  cheese, 
and  such  like,  and  barrels  of  beer  and  cider  on  wooden  trestles. 
The  men  were  haggling  for  the  food  and  drink,  and  already 
one  or  two  seemed  fuddled.  Some  were  exercising  in  the  use 
of  arms;  some  were  dancing,  and  some  singing.  And  no 
thought  or  respect  paid  at  all  to  the  Sabbath.  Oh,  was  this 
the  pious  and  godly  camp  which  I had  expected? 

“ Sister,"  said  Barnaby, 66  this  is  a godly  and  religious  place 
to  which  the  wisdom  of  dad  hath  brought  thee.  Perhaps  he 
meaneth  thee  to  lie  in  the  open  like  the  lads." 

“ Where  is  the  duke?"  asked  my  father,  looking  wrathfully 
at  these  revelers  and  Sabbath-breakers. 

“ The  duke  lies  at  the  George  Inn,"  said  Barnaby.  “ I will 
show  the  way." 

In  the  blue  parlor  of  the  George  the  duke  was  at  that  time 
holding  a council.  There  were  different  reports  as  to  the  Brid- 
port  affair.  Already  it  was  said  that  Lord  Grey  was  unfit  to 
lead  the  horse,  having  been  the  first  to  run  away;  and  some 
said  that  the  militia  were  driven  out  of  the  town  in  a panic, 
and  some  that  they  made  a stand  and  that  our  men  had  fled. 
I know  not  what  was  the  truth,  and  now  it  matters  little,  ex- 


108 


FOR  FAITH  AtfD  FREEDOM. 


cept  that  the  first  action  of  our  men  brought  them  little  honor. 
When  the  council  was  finished,  the  duke  sent  word  that  he 
would  receive  Dr.  Challis  (that  was  Humphrey)  and  Dr.  Com- 
fort Eykin. 

So  they  were  introduced  to  the  presence  of  his  grace,  and 
first  my  father — as  Humphrey  told  me — fell  into  a kind  of 
ecstasy,  praising  God  for  the  landing  of  the  duke,  and  fore- 
telling such  speedy  victory  as  would  lay  the  enemies  of  the 
country  at  his  feet.  He  then  drew  forth  a roll  of  paper  in 
which  he  had  set  down,  for  the  information  of  the  duke,  the 
estimated  number  of  the  disaffected  in  every  town  of  the  south 
and  west  of  England,  with  the  names  of  such  as  could  be 
trusted  not  only  to  risk  their  own  bodies  and  estates  in  the 
cause,  but  would  stir  up  and  encourage  their  friends.  There 
were  so  many  on  these  lists  that  the  duke's  eyes  brightened  as 
he  read  them. 

“ Sir,"  he  said,  “ if  these  reports  can  be  depended  upon,  we 
are  indeed  made  men.  What  is  your  opinion.  Doctor  Challis?" 

“ My  opinion,  sir,  is  that  these  are  the  names  of  friends  and 
well-wishers;  if  they  see  your  grace  well  supported  at  the  out- 
set, they  will  flock  in;  if  not,  many  of  them  will  stand  aloof." 

“ Will  Sir  Christopher  join  me?"  asked  the  duke. 

“ No,  sir;  he  is  now  seventy-five  years  of  age." 

The  duke  turned  away.  Presently  he  turned  to  the  lists, 
and  asked  many  more  questions. 

66  Sir,"  said  my  father,  at  length,  “ I have  given  you  the 
names  of  all  that  I know  who  are  well  affected  to  the  Protestant 
cause;  they  are  those  who  have  remained  faithful  to  the  ejected 
ministers.  Many  a time  have  I secretly  preached  to  them. 
One  thing  is  wanting;  the  assurance  that  your  grace  will  be- 
stow upon  us  liberty  of  conscience  and  freedom  of  worship;  else 
will  not  one  move  hand  or  foot. " 

“ Why,"  said  the  duke,  “ for  what  other  purpose  am  I 
come?  Assure  them,  good  friend — assure  them  in  my  name; 
make  the  most  solemn  pledge  that  is  in  your  power  and  in 
mine." 

“ In  that  case,  sir,"  said  my  father,  “ I will  at  once  write 
letters  with  my  own  hand  to  the  brethren  everywhere.  There 
are  many  honest  country  lads  who  will  carry  the  letters  by 
ways  where  they  are  not  likely  to  be  arrested  and  searched. 
And  now,  sir,  I pray  your  leave  to  preach  to  these  your  soldiers. 
They  are  at  present  drinking,  swearing,  and  breaking  the  Sab- 
bath. The  campaign,  which  should  be  begun  with  prayer  and 
humiliation  for  the  sins  of  the  country,  hath  been  begun  with 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM.  109 

many  deadly  sins,  with  merriment,  and  with  fooling.  Suffer 
me,  "then,  to  preach  to  them.  ” 

“ Preach,  by  all  means,”  said  the  duke.  “ You  shall  have 
the  parish  church.  I fear,  sir,  that  my  business  will  not  suffer 
me  to  have  the  edification  of  your  sermon,  but  I hope  that  it 
will  tend  to  the  soberness  and  earnestness  of  my  men.  For- 
give them,  sir,  for  their  lightness  of  heart.  They  are  for  the 
most  part  young.  Encourage  them  by  promises  rather  than 
by  rebuke.  And  so,  sir,  for  this  occasion,  farewell!” 

In  this  way  my  father  obtained  the  wish  of  his  heart,  and 
preached  once  more  in  a church  before  the  people,  who  were 
the  young  soldiers  of  Monmouth’s  army. 

I did  not  hear  that  sermon,  because  I was  asleep.  It  was  in 
tones  of  thunder  that  my  father  preached  to  them.  He  spoke 
of  the  old  war,  and  the  brave  deeds  that  their  fathers  had  done 
under  Cromwell;  theirs  was  the  victory.  Now,  as  then,  the 
victory  should  be  theirs,  if  they  carried  the  spirit  of  faithful- 
ness into  battle.  He  warned  them  of  their  sins,  sparing  none; 
and,  in  the  end,  he  concluded  with  such  a denunciation  of  the 
king  as  made  all  who  heard  it,  and  had  been  taught  to  regard 
the  king's  majesty  as  sacred,  open  their  mouths  and  gape  upon 
each  other;  for  then,  for  the  first  time,  they  truly  understood 
what  it  was  that  they  were  engaged  to  do. 

While  my  father  waited  to  see  the  duke,  Barnaby  went  about 
looking  for  a lodging.  The  town  is  small,  and  the  houses  were 
all  filled,  but  he  presently  found  a cottage  (call  it  rather  a hut) 
on  the  shore  beside  the  Cobb,  where,  on  promise  of  an  ex- 
travagant payment,  the  fisherman’s  wife  consented  to  give  up 
her  bed  to  my  mother  and  myself.  Before  the  bargain  was 
concluded,  I had  laid  myself  down  upon  it  and  was  sound 
asleep. 

So  I slept  the  whole  day,  though  outside  there  was  such  a 
trampling  on  the  beach,  such  a landing  of  stores  and  creaking 
of  chains,  as  might  have  awakened  the  Seven  Sleepers.  But 
me  nothing  could  awaken. 

In  the  evening  I woke  up  refreshed.  My  mother  was  already 
awake,  but  for  weariness  could  not  move  out  of  her  chair. 
The  good,  woman  of  the  cottage,  a kindly  soul,  brought  me 
rough  food  of  some  kind  with  a drink  of  water — the  army  had 
drunk  up  all  the  milk,  eaten  all  the  cheese,  the  butter,  the 
eggs,  and  the  pork,  beef,  and  mutton  in  the  place.  And  then 
Humphrey  came  and  asked  if  I would  go  with  him  into  the 
town  to  see  the  soldiers.  So  I went,  and  glad  I was  to  see  the 
sight.  But,  Lord!  to  think  that  it  was  the  Sabbath  evening; 
for  the  main  street  of  Lyme  was  full  of  men  swaggering  with 


lit) 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


long  swords  at  their  sides,  and  some  with  spears — feathers  hi 
their  hats  and  pistols  stuck  in  their  belts— all  were  talking 
loud,  as,  I am  told,  is  the  custom  in  a camp  of  soldiers.  Out- 
side the  George  there  was  a barrel  on  a stand,  and  venders  and 
drawers  ran  about  with  cans  fetching  and  carrying  the  liquor 
for  which  the  men  continually  called.  Then  at  the  door  of 
the  George  there  appeared  the  duke  himself,  with  his  follow- 
ing of  gentlemen.  All  rose  and  huzzahed  while  the  duke  came 
down  the  steps  and  turned  toward  the  camp  outside  the  town. 

I saw  his  face  very  well  as  he  passed.  Indeed,  I saw  him 
many  times  afterward,  and  I declare  that  my  heart  sunk  when 
first  I gazed  upon  him  as  he  stood  upon  the  steps  of  the 
George  Inn.  For  on  his  face,  plain  to  read,  was  the  sadness 
of  coming  ruin.  I say  I knew  from  that  moment  what  would 
be  his  end.  Nay,  I am  no  prophetess,  nor  am  I a witch,  to 
know  beforehand  the  counsels  of  the  Almighty;  yet  the  Lord 
hath  permitted  by  certain  signs  the  future  to  become  apparent 
to  those  who  know  how  to  read  them.  In  the  Duke  of  Mon- 
mouth the  signs  were  a restless  and  uneasy  eye,  an  air  of  pre- 
occupation, a trembling  mouth,  and  a hesitating  manner. 
There  was  in  him  nothing  of  the  confidence  of  one  who  knows 
that  fortune  is  about  to  smile  upon  him.  This,  I say,  was  my 
first  thought  about  the  duke,  and  the  first  thought  is  prophecy. 

There  sat  beside  the  benches  a secretary,  or  clerk,  who  took 
down  the  names  of  recruits.  The  duke  stopped  and  looked 
on.  A young  man  in  a sober  suit  of  brown,  in  appearance 
different  from  the  country  lads,  was  giving  in  his  name. 

“ Daniel  Foe,  your  grace,”  said  the  clerk,  looking  up. 
“ He  is  from  London.” 

“ From  London,”  the  duke  repeated.  “ I have  many 
friends  in  London.  I expect  them  shortly.  Thou  art  a 
worthy  lad,  and  deservest  encouragement.  ” So  he  passed  on 
his  way. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

ON  THE  MARCH. 

At  daybreak  next  morning  the  drums  began  to  beat  and  the 
trumpets  were  blown,  and  after  breakfast  the  newly  raised 
army  marched  out  in  such  order  as  was  possible.  I have  not 
to  write  a history  of  this  rebellion,  which  hath  already  been 
done  by  able  hands;  I speak  only  of  what  I saw,  and  the  things 
with  which  I was  concerned. 

First,  then,  it  is  true  that  the  whole  country  was  quickly  put 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


Ill 


into  a ferment  by  the  duke*s  landing;  and  had  those  who 
planned  the  expedition  provided  a proper  supply  of  arms,  the 
army  would  have  quickly  mustered  twenty  thousand  men,  all 
resolute  and  capable  of  meeting  any  force  that  the  king  could 
have  raised.  Nay,  it  would  have  grown  and  swelled  as  it 
moved.  But  there  were  not  enough  arms.  Everything  prom- 
ised well  for  him — but  there  were  no  arms  for  half  those  who 
came  in.  The  spirit  of  the  Devon  and  Somerset  militia  was 
lukewarm;  they  ran  at  Bridport,  at  Axminster,  and  at  Chard; 
nay,  some  of  them  even  deserted  to  join  the  duke.  There  were 
thousands  scattered  about  the  country — those,  namely,  who 
still  held  to  the  doctrines  of  the  persecuted  ministers,  and  those 
who  abhorred  the  Catholic  religion — who  wished  well  and 
would  have  joined — Humphrey  knew  well-wishers  by  the  thou- 
sand whose  names  were  on  the  lists  in  Holland — but  how  could 
they  join  when  the  army  was  so  ill-found?  And  this  was  the 
principal  reason,  I am  assured,  why  the  country  gentlemen 
did  not  come  in  at  first — because  there  were  no  arms.  How 
can  soldiers  fight  when  they  have  no  arms?  How  could  the 
duke  have  been  suffered  to  begin  with  so  scanty  a preparation 
of  arms?  Afterward,  when  Monmouth  proclaimed  himself 
king,  there  were,  perhaps,  other  reasons  why  the  well-wishers 
held  aloof.  Some  of  them,  certainly,  who  were  known  to  be 
friends  of  the  duke  (among  them  Mr.  Prideaux,  of  Ford  Abbey) 
were  arrested  and  thrown  into  prison,  while  many  thousands 
who  were  flocking  to  the  standard  were  either  turned  back  or 
seized  and  thrown  into  prison. 

As  for  the  quality  of  the  troops  who  formed  the  army,  I 
know  nothing,  except  that  at  Sedgemoor  they  continued  to 
fight  valiantly  after  their  leaders  had  fled.  They  were  raw 
troops — mere  country  lads — and  their  officers  were,  for  the 
most  part,  simple  tradesmen  who  had  no  knowledge  of  the  art 
of  war.  Dare  the  younger  was  a goldsmith;  Captain  Perrot 
was  a dyer;  Captain  Hucker,  a maker  of  serge;  and  so  on  with 
all  of  them.  It  was  unfortunate  that  Mr.  Andrew  Fletcher  of 
Saltoun  should  have  killed  Mr.  Dare  the  elder  on  the  first  day, 
because,  as  everybody  agrees,  he  was  the  most  experienced  sol- 
dier in  the  whole  army.  The  route  proposed  by  the  duke  was 
known  to  everybody.  He  intended  to  march  through  Taunton, 
Bridgewater,  and  Bristol  to  Gloucester,  where  he  thought  he 
would  be  joined  by  a new  army  raised  by  his  friends  in  Cheshire. 
He  also  reckoned  on  receiving  adherents  everywhere  on  the 
road,  and  on  easily  defeating  any  force  that  the  king  should 
be  able  to  send  against  him.  How  he  fared  in  that  schema 
everybody  knows. 


112 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


Long  before  the  army  was  ready  to  march  Humphrey  camq1 
to  advise  with  us.  First  of  all,  he  had  endeavored  to  have 
speech  with  my  father,  but  in  vain.  Henceforth  my  father 
seemed  to  have  no  thought  of  his  wife  and  daughter.  Hum- 
phrey at  first  advised  us  to  go  home  again.  “As  for  your 
dedication  to  the  cause/’  he  said,  “1  think  that  he  hath 
already  forgotten  it,  seeing  that  it  means  nothing,  and  that 
your  presence  with  us  can  not  help.  Go  home,  madame,  and 
let  Alice  persuade  Robin  to  stay  at  home  in  order  to  take  care 
of  you. 99 

“ No/’  said  my  mother;  “ that  may  we  not  do.  I must 
obey  my  husband,  who  commanded  us  to  follow  him.  Whither 
he  goeth  there  I will  follow.  99 

Finding  that  she  was  resolute  upon  this  point,  Humphrey 
told  us  that  the  duke  would  certainly  march  upon  Taunton, 
where  more  than  half  of  the  town  were  his  friends.  He  there- 
fore advised  that  we  should  ride  to  that  place — not  following 
the  army,  but  going  across  the  country,  most  of  which  is  a very 
wild  and  desolate  part,  where  we  should  have  no  fear  except 
from  gypsies  and  such  wild  people^  who  might  be  robbers  and 
rogues,  but  who  were  ail  now  making  the  most  of  the  disturbed 
state  of  the  country  and  running  about  the  roads  plundering 
and  thieving.  But  he  said  he  would  himself  provide  us  with  a 
guide,  one  who  knew  the  way,  and  a good  stout  fellow,  armed 
with  a cudgel  at  least.  To  this  my  mother  agreed,  fearing  to 
anger  her  husband  if  she  should  disturb  him  at  his  work  of 
writing  letters. 

Humphrey  had  little  trouble  in  finding  the  guide  for  us. 
He  was  an  honest  lad  from  a place  called  Holford,  in  the 
Quantock  Hills,  who,  finding  that  there  were  no  arms  for  him, 
was  going  home  again.  Unhappily,  when  we  got  to  Taunton, 
he  was  persuaded — partly  by  me,  alas! — to  remain.  He  joined 
Barnaby’s  company,  and  was  either  killed  at  Sedgemoor,  or 
one  of  those  hanged  at  Weston,  Zoyland,  or  Bridgewater.  For 
he  was  no  more  heard  of.  This  business  settled,  we  went  up 
to  the  church-yard  in  order  to  see  the  march  of  the  army  out 
of  camp.  And  a brave  show  the  gallant  soldiers  made. 

First  rode  Colonel  Wade  with  the  vanguard.  After  them, 
with  a due  interval,  rode  the  greater  part  of  the  Horse,  already 
three  hundred  strong,  under  Lord  Grey  of  Wark.  Among 
them  was  the  company  sent  by  Mr.  Speke,  of  White  Lacking- 
ton,  forty  very  stout  fellows,  well  armed  and  mounted  on  cart- 
horses. The  main  army  was  composed  of  four  regiments. 
The  first  was  the  Blue  Regiment,  or  the  Duke’s  Own,  whose 
colonel  was  the  aforesaid  Wade.  They  formed  the  van,  and 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


113 


were  seven  hundred  strong.  The  others  were  the  White,  com- 
manded by  Colonel  Foukes,  the  Green,  by  Colonel  Holmes, 
and  the  Yellow,  by  Colonel  Fox.  All  these  regiments  were 
fully  armed,  the  men  wearing  favors  or  rosettes  in  their  hats 
and  on  their  arms,  of  the  color  from  which  their  regiment  was 
named. 

The  duke  himself,  who  rode  a great  white  horse,  was  sur- 
rounded by  a small  body-guard  of  gentlemen  (afterward  they 
became  a company  of  forty),  richly  dressed  and  well  mounted. 
With  him  were  carried  the  colors,  embroidered  with  the  words* 
“ Pro  Religione  et  Libertate. " This  was  the  second  time  that 
I had  seen  the  duke,  and  again  I felt  at  sight  of  his  face  the 
foreknowledge  of  coming  woe.  On  such  an  occasion  the  chief 
should  show  a gallant  mien  and  a face  of  cheerful  hope.  The 
duke,  however,  looked  gloomy,  and  hung  his  head. 

Truly,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  no  force  could  dare  so  much  as 
to  meet  this  great  and  invincible  army.  And  certainly  there 
could  nowhere  be  gathered  together  a more  stalwart  set  of  sol- 
diers, nearly  all  young  men,  and  full  of  spirit.  They  shouted 
and  sung  as  they  marched.  Presently  there  passed  us  my 
brother  Barnaby,  with  his  company  of  the  Green  Regiment. 
It  was  easy  to  perceive  by  the  handling  of  his  arms  and  by  his 
bearing  that  he  was  accustomed  to  act  with  others,  and  already 
he  had  so  instructed  his  men  that  they  set  an  example  to  the 
rest  both  in  their  orderliness  of  march  and  the  carriage  of  their 
weapons. 

After  the  main  army  they  carried  the  ordnance — four  small 
cannon — and  the  ammunition  in  wagons  with  guards  and 
horsemen.  Lastly  there  rode  those  who  do  not  fight,  yet  be- 
long to  the  army.  These  were  the  chaplain  to  the  army,  Dr. 
Hooke,  a grave  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England;  Mr. 
Ferguson,  the  duke's  private  chaplain,  a fiery  person,  of  whom 
many  hard  things  have  been  said,  which  here  concern  us  not; 
and  my  father,  who  thus  rode  openly  with  the  other  two  in 
order  that  the  Non-conformists  might  be  encouraged  by  his 
presence,  as  an  equal  with  the  two  chaplains.  He  was  clad  in 
a new  cassock,  obtained  I know  not  whence.  He  sat  upright 
in  the  saddle,  a Bible  in  his  hand,  the  long  white  locks  lying 
on  his  shoulders  like  a peruke,  but  more  venerable  than  any 
wig.  His  thin  face  was  flushed  with  the  joy  of  coming  victory, 
and  his  eyes  flashed  fire.  If  all  the  men  had  shown  such  a spirit 
the  army  would  have  overrun  the  whole  country.  The  four 
surgeons — Dr.  Temple,  Dr.  Gaylard,  Dr.  Oliver,  and  Hum- 


114 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


lowed  such  a motley  crew  as  no  one  can  conceive.  There  were 
gypsies,  with  their  black  tents  and  carts,  ready  to  rob  and 
plunder;  there  were  the  tinkers,  who  are  nothing  better  than 
gypsies,  and  are  said  to  speak  their  language;  there  were  men 
with  casks  on  wheels  filled  with  beer  or  cider;  there  were  carts 
carrying  bread,  cakes,  biscuits,  and  such  things  as  one  can  buy 
in  a booth  or  at  a fair;  there  were  women  of  bold  and  impu- 
dent looks,  singing  as  they  walked;  there  were,  besides,  whole 
troops  of  country  lads,  some  of  them  mere  boys,  running  and 
strutting  along  in  hopes  to  receive  arms  and  to  take  a place  in 
the  regiments. 

Presently  they  were  all  gone,  and  Lyme  was  quit  of  them. 
What  became  in  the  end  of  all  the  rabble  rout  which  followed 
the  army,  I know  not.  One  thing  was  certain : the  godly  dis- 
position, the  pious  singing  of  psalms,  and  the  devout  exposition 
of  the  Word  which  I had  looked  for  in  the  army  were  not  ap- 
parent. Rather  there  was  evident  a tumultuous  joy,  as  of 
school-boys  out  for  a holiday — certainly  no  school-boys  could 
have  made  more  noise  or  showed  greater  happiness  in  their 
faces.  Among  them,  however,  there  were  some  men  of  mid- 
dle age,  whose  faces  showed  a different  temper;  but  these  were 
rare. 

44  Lord  help  them!”  said  our  friendly  fisher-woman,  who 
stood  with  us.  64  There  will  be  hard  knocks  before  those  fine 
fellows  go  home  again.” 

44  They  fight  on  the  Lord’s  side,”  said  my  mother;  46  there- 
fore they  may  be  killed,  but  they  will  not  wholly  perish.” 

As  for  the  hard  knocks,  they  began  without  any  delay,  and 
on  that  very  morning;  for  at  Axminster  they  encountered  the 
Somerset  and  Devon  Militia,  who  thought  to  join  their  forces, 
but  were  speedily  put  to  flight  by  the  rebels — a victory  which 
greatly  encouraged  them. 

It  hath  been  maliciously  said  that  we  followed  the  army — as 
if  we  were  two  sutler  women — on  foot,  I suppose,  tramping  in 
the  dust,  singing  ribald  songs  like  those  poor  creatures  whom 
we  saw  marching  out  of  Lyme.  You  have  heard  how  we  agreed 
to  follow  Humphrey’s  advice.  W ell,  we  left  Lyme  very  early 
the  next  morning  (our  fisher-woman  having  now  become  very 
friendly  and  loath  to  let  us  go)  and  rode  out,  our  guide  (poor 
lad!  his  death  lies  heavy  on  my  soul,  yet  I meant  the  best; 
and,  truly,  it  was  the  side  of  the  Lord)  marching  beside  us 
armed  with  a stout  bludgeon.  We  kept  the  main  road  (which 
was  very  quiet  at  this  early  hour)  as  far  as  Axminster,  where 
we  left  it;  and  after  crossing  the  river  by  a ford,  or  wash,  we 
engaged  upon  a track?  or  path,  which  led  along  the  banks  of  a 


ftOR  FAITH  AKD  FREEDOM* 


115 


littie  stream  for  a mile  or  so — as  far  as  the  village  of  Chard- 
stock.  Here  we  made  no  halt,  but  leaving  it  behind,  we  struck 
into  a most  wild  and  mountainous  country  full  of  old  forests 
and  great  bare  places.  It  is  called  the  Forest  of  Neroche,  and 
is  said  to  shelter  numbers  of  gypsies  and  vagabonds,  and  to 
have  in  it  some  of  those  wild  people  wdio  live  in  the  hills  and 
woods  of  Somerset,  and  do  no  work  except  to  gather  the  dry 
broom  and  tie  it  up,  and  so  live  hard  and  hungry  lives,  but 
know  not  any  master.  These  are  reported  to  be  a harmless 
people,  but  the  gypsies  are  dangerous,  because  they  are  ready 
to  rob  and  even  murder.  I thought  of  Barnaby^s  bag  of  gold 
and  trembled.  However,  we  met  with  none  of  them  on  the 
journey,  because  they  were  all  running  after  Monmouth’s 
army.  There  was  no  path  over  the  hills  by  the  way  we  took; 
but  our  guide  knew  the  country  so  well  that  he  needed  none, 
pointing  out  the  hills  with  a kind  of  pride  as  if  they  belonged 
to  him,  and  telling  us  the  name  of  every  one  but  these  I have 
long  since  forgotten.  The  country,  however,  I can  never  for- 
get, because  it  is  so  wild  and  beautiful.  One  place  I remem- 
ber. It  is  a very  strange  and  wonderful  place.  There  is  a 
vast  great  earthwork  surrounded  by  walls  of  stone,  but  these 
are  ruinous.  It  stands  on  a hill  called  Blackdown,  which 
looks  into  the  Yale  of  Taunton.  The  guide  said  it  was  called 
Castle  Batch,  and  that  it  was  built  long  ago  by  the  ancient 
Bomans.  It  is  not  at  all  like  Sherborne  Castle,  which  Oliver 
Cromwell  slighted  when  he  took  the  place  and  blew  it  up  with 
gunpowder;  but  Sherborne  was  not  built  by  the  Bomans. 
Here,  after  our  long  walk,  we  halted  and  took  the  dinner  of 
cold  bacon  and  bread  which  we  had  brought  with  us.  The 
place  looks  out  upon  the  beautiful  Vale  of  Taunton,  of  which 
I had  heard.  Surely  there  can  not  be  a more  rich,  fertile,  and 
lovely  place  in  all  England  than  the  Yale  of  Taunton.  Our 
guide  began  to  tell  us  of  the  glories  of  the  town,  its  wealth  and 
populousness — and  all  for  Monmouth,  he  added.  When  my 
mother  was  rested  we  remounted  our  nags  and  went  on,  de- 
scending into  the  plain.  Humphrey  had  provided  us  with  a 
letter  commendatory.  He,  who  knew  the  names  of  all  who 
were  well  affected,  assured  us  that  the  lady  to  whom  the  letter 
was  addressed,  Miss  Susan  Blake  by  name,  was  one  of  the  most 
forward  in  the  Protestant  cause.  She  was  well  known  and 
much  respected,  and  she  kept  a school  for  young  gentlewomen, 
where  many  children  of  the  Non-conformist  gentry  were  edu- 
cated. He  instructed  us  to  proceed  directly  to  her  house,  and 
to  ask  her  to  procure  for  us  a decent  and  safe  lodging.  He 
could  not  have  given  us  a letter  to  any  better  person. 


116 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM* 


It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  we  rode  into  Taunton. 
The  streets  were  full  of  people  running  about,  talking  now  in 
groups  and  now  by  twos  and  threes;  now  shouting  and  now 
whispering.  While  we  rode  along  the  street  a man  ran  bawl- 
ing: 

“ Great  news!  great  news!  Monmouth  is  upon  us  with  twice 
ten  thousand  men!” 

It  seems  that  they  had  only  that  day  learned  of  the  defeat  of 
the  militia  by  the  rebels.  A company  of  the  Somerset  militia 
were  in  the  town,  under  Colonel  Luttrell,  in  order  to  keep 
down  the  people. 

Taunton  is,  as  everybody  knows,  a most  rich,  prosperous, 
and  populous  town.  I had  never  before  seen  so  many  houses 
and  so  many  people.  Why,  if  the  men  of  Taunton  declared 
for  the  duke,  his  cause  was  already  won.  For  there  is  no- 
where, as  I could  not  fail  to  know,  a greater  stronghold  of  dis- 
sent than  this  town,  except  London,  and  none  where  the  Non- 
conformists have  more  injuries  to  remember.  Only  two  years 
before  this  their  meeting-houses  had  been  broken  into  and  their 
pulpits  and  pews  brought  out  and  burned,  and  they  were 
forced,  against  their  conscience,  to  worship  in  the  parish 
church. 

We  easily  found  Miss  Blake^s  house,  and  giving  our  horses 
to  the  guide,  we  presented  her  with  our  letter.  She  was  a 
young  woman  somewhat  below  the  common  stature,  quick  of 
speech,  her  face  and  eyes  full  of  vivacity,  and  about  thirty 
years  of  age.  But  when  she  had  read  the  letter  and  under- 
stood who  we  were  and  whence  we  came,  she  first  made  a deep 
reverence  to  my  mother,  and  then  she  took  my  hands  and 
kissed  me. 

“ Madame,”  she  said,  “ believe  me,  my  poor  house  will  be 
honored  indeed  by  the  presence  of  the  wife  and  the  daughter 
of  the  godly  Doctor  Comfort  Eykin.  Pray,  pray  go  no  fur- 
ther. I have  a room  that  is  at  your  disposal.  Go  thither, 
madame,  I beg,  and  rest  after  your  journey.  The  wife  of 
Doctor  Eykin!  *Tis  indeed  an  honor.”  And  so  with  the  kind- 
est words  she  led  us  upstairs,  and  gave  us  a room  with  a bed 
in  it,  and  caused  water  for  washing  to  be  brought,  and  present- 
ly went  out  with  me  to  buy  certain  things  needful  for  us,  who 
were  indeed  rustical  in  our  dress,  to  present  the  appearance  of 
gentlewomen — thanks  to  Barnaby's  heavy  purse,  I could  get 
them  without  telling  my  mother  anything  about  it.  She  then 
gave  us  supper,  and  told  us  all  the  news.  The  king,  she  said, 
was  horribly  afraid,  and  it  was  rumored  that  the  priests  had 
all  been  sent  away  to  France;  the  Taunton  people  were  re- 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


11? 


solved  to  give  the  duke  a brave  reception;  all  over  the  country 
there  was  no  doubt,  men  would  rally  by  thousands;  she  was  in 
a rapture  of  joy  and  gratitude.  Supper  over,,  she  took  us  to 
her  school-room,  and  here — oh,  the  pretty  sight! — her  school- 
girls were  engaged  in  working  and  embroidering  flags  for  the 
duke's  army. 

“ I know  not,"  she  said,  “ whether  his  grace  will  condescend 
to  receive  them.  But  it  is  all  we  women  can  do. " Poor 
wretch!  she  afterward  suffered  the  full  penalty  for  her  zeal. 

All  that  evening  we  heard  the  noise  of  men  running  about 
the  town,  with  the  clanking  of  weapons  and  the  commands  of 
officers;  but  we  knew  not  what  had  happened. 

Lo!  in  the  morning  the  glad  tidings  that  the  militia  had  left 
the  town.  Nor  was  that  all;  for  at  daybreak  the  people  began 
to  assemble,  and,  there  being  none  to  stay  them,  broke  into 
the  great  church  and  took  possession  of  the  arms  that  had  been 
deposited  for  safety  in  the  tower.  They  also  opened  the  prison 
and  set  free  a worthy  Non-conformist  divine  named  Vincent. 
All  the  morning  the  mob  ran  about  the  streets  shouting:  “ A 
Monmouth!  a Monmouth!"  the  magistrates  and  Royalists  not 
daring  so  much  as  to  show  their  faces,  and  there  was  nothing 
talked  of  but  the  overthrow  of  the  king  and  the  triumph  of  the 
Protestant  religion.  Nay,  there  were  fiery  speakers  in  the 
market-place  and  before  the  west  porch  of  the  church,  who 
mounted  on  tubs  and  exhorted  the  people.  Grave  merchants 
came  forth  and  shook  hands  with  each  other;  ministers  who 
had  been  in  hiding  now  walked  forth  boldly.  It  was  truly  a 
great  day  for  Taunton. 

The  excitement  grew  greater  when  Captain  Hucker,  a well- 
known  serge-maker  of  the  town,  rode  in  with  a troop  of 
Monmouth's  horse.  Captain  Hucker  had  been  seized  by 
Colonel  Phillips  on  the  charge  of  receiving  a message  from  the 
duke,  but  he  escaped  and  joined  the  rebels,  to  his  great  loss, 
as  afterward  appeared.  However,  he  now  rode  in  to  tell  his 
fellow-townsmen  of  his  wonderful  and  providential  escape,  and 
that  the  duke  would  certainly  arrive  the  next  day;  and  he  ex- 
horted them  to  give  him  such  a welcome  as  he  had  a right  to 
expect  at  their  hands.  He  also  reminded  them  that  they  were 
the  sons  of  the  men  who  forty  years  before  defended  Taunton 
under  Admiral  Blake.  There  was  a great  shouting  and  tossing 
of  caps  after  Captain  Hucker's  address,  and  no  one  could  do 
too  much  for  the  horsemen  with  him,  so  that  I fear  these  brave 
fellows  were  soon  fain  to  lie  down  and  sleep  till  the  fumes  of 
the  strong  ale  should  leave  their  brains. 

All  that  day  and  half  the  night  we  sat  in  Miss  Blake's  school- 


118 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


room  finishing  the  flags,  in  which  I was  permitted  to  join. 
There  were  twenty-seven  flags  in  all  presented  to  the  army  by 
the  Taunton  maids —twelve  by  Miss  Blake  and  fifteen  by  one 
Mrs.  Musgrave,  also  a school-mistress.  And  now,  indeed,  see- 
ing that  the  militia  at  Axminster  had  fled  almost  at  the  mere 
aspect  of  one  man,  and  those  of  Taunton  had  also  fled  away 
secretly  by  night,  and,  catching  the  zeal  of  our  kind  enter- 
tainer, and  considering  the  courage  and  spirit  of  these  good 
people,  I began  to  feel  confident  again,  and  my  heart,  which 
had  fallen  very  low  at  the  sight  of  the  duke’s  hanging  head 
and  gloomy  looks,  rose  again,  and  all  dangers  seemed  to  van- 
ish. And  so,  in  a mere  fool’s  paradise,  I continued  happy  in- 
deed until  the  fatal  news  of  Sedgemoor  fight  awoke  us  all  from 
our  fond  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

TAUNTON. 

I never  weary  in  thinking  of  the  gayety  and  happiness  of 
those  four  days  at  Taunton  among  the  rebels.  There  was  no 
more  doubt  in  any  of  our  hearts;  we  were  all  confident  of  vic- 
tory— and  that  easy,  and  perhaps  bloodless.  As  was  the  re- 
joicing at  Taunton,  so  it  would  be  in  every  town  of  the  coun- 
try. One  only  had  to  look  out  of  window  in  order  to  feel 
assurance  of  that  victory,  so  jolly,  so  happy,  so  confident 
looked  every  face. 

“ Why,”  said  Miss  Blake,  “ in  future  ages  even  we  women, 
who  have  only  worked  the  flags,  will  be  envied  for  our  share 
in  the  glorious  deliverance.  Great  writers  will  speak  of  us  as 
they  speak  of  the  Roman  women.  ” Then  all  our  eyes  sparkled, 
and  the  needles  flew  faster  and  the  flags  grew  nearer  to  com- 
pletion. 

If  history  should  condescend  to  remember  the  poor  maids  of 
Taunton  at  all,  it  will  be,  at  best,  with  pity  for  the  afflictions 
which  afterward  fell  upon  them;  none,  certainly,  will  envy 
them;  but  we  shall  be  forgotten.  Why  should  we  be  remem- 
bered? Women,  it  is  certain,  have  no  business  with  affairs  of 
state,  and  especially  none  with  rebellions  and  civil  wars.  Our 
hearts  and  passions  carry  us  away.  The  leaders  in  the  cause 
which  we  have  joined  appear  to  us  to  be  more  than  human; 
we  can  not  restrain  ourselves,  we  fall  down  and  worship  our 
leaders,  especially  in  the  cause  of  religion  and  liberty. 

Now  behold!  On  the  very  morning  after  we  arrived  at 
Taunton  I was  abroad  in  the  streets  with  Miss  Blake/Jooking 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


119 


at  the  town,  which  hath  shops  full  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
precious  things,  and  wondering  at  the  great  concourse  of  peo- 
ple (for  the  looms  were  all  deserted,  and  the  workmen  were  in 
the  streets  filled  with  a martial  spirit),  I saw  riding  into  the 
town  no  other  than  Eobin  himself.  Oh,  how  my  heart  leaped 
up  to  see  him!  He  was  most  gallantly  dressed — in  a purple 
coat,  with  a crimson  sash  over  his  shoulders  to  carry  his  sword; 
he  had  pistols  in  his  holsters,  and  wore  great  riding-boots,  and 
with  him  rode  a company  of  a dozen  young  men  mounted  on 
good  strong  nags;  why,  they  were  men  of  our  own  village,  and 
I knew  them,  every  one.  They  were  armed  with  muskets  and 
pikes — I knew  where  they  came  from — and  when  they  saw  me 
the  fellows  all  began  to  grin,  and  to  square  their  shoulders  so 
as  to  look  more  martial.  But  Eobin  leaped  from  his  horse. 

44 'Tis  Alice !”  he  cried.  44  Dear  heart!  Thou  art  then 
safe,  so  far?  Madame,  your  servant.”  Here  he  took  off  his 
hat  to  Miss  Blake.  44  Lads,  ride  on  to  the  White  Hart  and 
call  for  what  you  want,  and  take  care  of  the  nags.  This  is  a 
joyful  meeting,  sweetheart.”  Here  he  kissed  me.  44  The 
duke,  they  say,  draws  thousands  daily.  I thought  to  find  him 
in  Taunton  by  this  time.  Why,  we  are  as  good  as  victorious 
already.  Humphrey,  I take  it,  is  with  his  grace.  My  dear, 
even  had  the  cause  of  freedom  failed  to  move  me  I had  been 
dragged  by  the  silken  ropes  of  love.  Truly,  I could  not  choose 
but  come.  There  was  the  thought  of  these  brave  fellows  march- 
ing to  battle,  and  I all  the  time  skulking  at  home,  who  had 
ever  been  so  loud  upon  their  side.  And  there  was  the  thought 
of  Humphrey,  braving  the  dangers  of  the  field,  tender  though 
he  be,  and  I,  strong  and  lusty,  sitting  by  the  fire,  and  sleep- 
ing on  a feather-bed;  and  always  there  was  the  thought  of 
thee,  my  dear,  among  these  rude  soldiers — like  Miltoi/s  lady 
among  the  rabble  rout,  because  well  I know  that  even  Chris- 
tian warriors  (so  called)  are  not  lambs;  and,  again,  there  was 
my  grandfather,  who  could  find  no  rest,  but  continually  walked 
to  and  fro,  with  looks  that  at  one  time  said,  6 Go,  my  son  / 
and  at  others,  4 Nay;  lest  thou  receive  a hurt/  and  the  white 
face  of  my  mother,  which  said,  as  plain  as  eyes  could  speak: 
4 He  ought  to  go,  he  ought  to  go;  and  yet  he  may  be  killed/  ” 

44  Oh,  Eobin!  Pray  God  there  prove  to  be  no  more  fight- 
ing!” 

44  Well,  my  dear,  if  I am  not  tedious  to  madame  here — ” 

44  Oh,  sir,”  said  Miss  Blake,  44  it  is  a joy  to  hear  this  talk.” 
She  told  me  afterward  that  it  was  a joy  to  look  upon  so  gal- 
lant a gentleman,  and  such  a pair  of  lovers,  She,  poor  thing, 
had  no  sweetheart. 


120 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


“Then  on  Monday,”  Robin  continued,  “the  day  before 
yesterday,  I could  refrain  no  longer,  but  laid  the  matter  before 
my  grandfather.  Sweetheart,  there  is  no  better  man  in  all 
the  world.” 

“ Of  that  I am  well  assured,  Robin.” 

“ First,  he  said  that  if  anything  befell  me  he  should  go  down 
in  sorrow  to  his  grave;  yet  that  as  to  his  own  end  an  old  man 
so  near  the  grave  should  not  be  concerned  about  the  manner 
of  his  end  so  long  as  he  should  keep  to  honor  and  duty.  Next, 
that  in  his  own  youth  he  had  himself  gone  forth  willingly  to 
fight  in  the  cause  of  liberty,  without  counting  the  risk.  Third- 
ly, that  if  my  conscience  did  truly  urge  me  to  follow  the  duke, 
I ought  to  obey  that  voice  in  the  name  of  God.  And  this  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  and  yet  a lively  and  visible  satisfaction,  that, 
as  he  himself  had  chosen,  so  his  grandson  would  choose. 
6 Sir / I said,  ‘ that  voice  of  conscience  speaks  very  loudly  and 
clearly.  I can  not  stifle  it.  Therefore,  by  your  good  leave,  I 
will  go. 9 Then  he  bade  me  take  the  best  horse  in  the  stable, 
and  gave  me  a purse  of  gold,  and  so  I made  ready.” 

Miss  Blake  at  this  point  said  that  she  was  reminded  of 
David.  It  was,  I suppose,  because  Robin  was  so  goodly  a lad 
to  look  upon;  otherwise  David,  though  an  exile,  did  never  en- 
deavor to  pull  King  Saul  from  his  throne. 

“ Then,”  Robin  continued,  “ I went  to  my  mother.  She 
wept,  because  war  hath  many  dangers  and  chances;  but  she 
would  not  say  me  ‘ Nay. 9 And  in  the  evening  when  the  men 
came  home  I asked  who  would  go  with  me.  A dozen  stout 
fellows — you  know’  them  all,  sweetheart — stepped  forth  at 
once;  another  dozen  would  have  come,  but  their  wives  pre- 
vented them.  And  so,  mounting  them  on  good  cart-horses,  I 
bade  farewell  and  rode  away.” 

“ Sir,”  said  Miss  Blake,  “ you  have  chosen  the  better  part. 
You  will  be  rewarded  by  so  splendid  a victory  that  it  will  sur- 
prise all  the  world;  and  for  the  rest  of  your  life — yes,  and  for 
generations  afterward — you  will  be  ranked  among  the  deliver- 
ers of  your  country.  It  is  a great  privilege,  sir,  to  take  part 
in  the  noblest  passage  of  English  history.  Oh!”  she  clasped 
her  hands,  “ I am  sorry  that  I am  not  a man,  only  because  I 
would  strike  a blow  in  this  sacred  cause.  But  we  are  women, 
and  we  can  but  pray — and  make  flags.  We  can  not  die  for 
the  cause.” 

The  event  proved  that  women  can  sometimes  die  for  the 
cause,  because  she  herself,  if  any  woman  ever  did,  died  for  her 
cause. 

Then  Robin  left  us  in  order  to  take  steps  about  his  men  and 


EOR  FAItH  AED  FREEDOM. 


121 

himself.  Captain  Hucker  received  them  in  the  name  of  the 
duke.  They  joined  the  cavalry,  and  Eobin  was  made  a cap- 
tain. This  done,  he  rode  out  with  the  rest  to  meet  the  duke. 

Now  when  his  approach  was  known,  everybody  who  had  a 
horse  rode  forth  to  meet  him,  so  that  there  followed  him,  not 
counting  his  army,  so  great  a company  that  they  almost  made 
another  army.  Lord  Grey  rode  on  one  side  of  him,  and 
Colonel  Speke  on  the  other;  Dr.  Hooke,  the  chaplain,  and  my 
father  rode  behind.  My  heart  swelled  with  joy  to  hear  how  the 
people,  when  they  had  shouted  themselves  hoarse,  cried  out  for 
my  father,  because  his  presence  showed  that  they  would  have 
once  more  that  liberty  of  worship  for  want  of  which  they  had 
so  long  languished.  The  duke's  own  chaplain,  Mr.  Ferguson, 
had  got  a naked  sword  in  his  hand,  and  was  marching  on  foot, 
crying  out,  in  a most  vainglorious  manner:  “ I am  Ferguson, 
the  famous  Ferguson,  that  Ferguson  for  whose  head  so  many 
hundred  pounds  were  offered.  I am  that  man;  I am  that 
man."  He  wore  a great  gown  and  cassock;  which  consorted 
ill  with  the  sword  in  his  hand;  and  in  the  evening  he  preached 
in  the  great  church,  while  my  father  preached  in  the  old  meet- 
ing-house to  a much  larger  congregation,  and,  I venture  to 
think,  a much  more  edifying  discourse. 

The  army  marched  through  the  town  in  much  the  same 
ord6r  as  it  had  marched  out  of  Lyme,  and  it  seemed  not  much 
bigger,  but  the  men  marched  more  orderly,  and  there  was  less 
laughing  and  shouting.  But  the  streets  were  so  thronged  that 
the  men  could  hardly  make  their  way. 

As  soon  as  it  was  reported  that  the  Duke  was  within  a mile 
(they  had  that  day  marched  sixteen  miles,  from  Ilminster),  the 
church  bells  were  set  a-ringing;  children  came  out  with  baskets 
of  flowers  in  readiness  to  strew  them  at  his  feet  as  he  should 
pass — roses  and  lilies  and  all  kinds  of  summer  flowers,  so  that 
his  horse  had  a most  delicate  carpet  to  walk  upon;  the  com- 
mon people  crowded  the  sides  of  the  streets;  the  windows  were 
filled  with  ladies,  who  waved  their  handkerchiefs,  and  called 
aloud  on  Heaven  to  bless  the  good  duke,  the  brave  duke,  the 
sweet  and  lovely  duke.  If  there  were  any  malcontents  in  the 
town  they  kept  snug;  it  would  have  cost  them  dear  even  to 
have  been  seen  in  the  streets  that  day.  The  duke  showed  on 
this  occasion  a face  full  of  hope  and  happiness;  indeed,  if  he 
had  not  shown  a cheerful  countenance  on  such  a day  he  would 
have  been  something  less,  or  something  greater,  than  human. 
I mean  that  he  would  have  been  either  insensible  and  blockish 
not  to  be  moved  by  such  a welcome,  or  else  he  would  have 
been  a prophet,  as  foreseeing  what  would  follow.  He  rode 


for  faith  ahd  freedom. 


122 

bareheaded,  carrying  his  hat  in  his  hand;  he  was  dressed  in  a 
shining  corselet,  with  a blue  silk  scarf  and  a purple  coat;  his 
long  brown  hair  hung  in  curls  upon  his  shoulders;  his  sweet 
lips  were  parted  with  a gracious  smile;  his  beautiful  brown 
eyes — never  had  any  prince  more  lovely  eyes — looked  pleased 
and  benignant;  truly  there  was  never  made  any  man  more 
comely  than  the  Duke  of  Monmouth.  The  face  of  his  father, 
and  that  of  his  uncle.  King  James,  were  dark  and  gloomy,  but 
the  duke’s  face  was  naturally  bright  and  cheerful;  King 
Charles’s  long  nose  in  him  was  softened  and  reduced  to  the 
proportions  of  manly  beauty;  in  short,  there  was  no  feature 
that  in  his  father  was  harsh  and  unpleasing  but  was  in  him 
sweet  and  beautiful.  If  I had  thought  him  comely  and  like  a 
king’s  son  when  four  years  before  he  made  his  progress,  I 
thought  him  now  ten  times  as  gracious  and  as  beautiful.  He 
was  thinner  in  the  face,  which  gave  his  appearance  the  greater 
dignity;  he  had  ever  the  most  gracious  smile  and  the  most 
charming  eyes;  and  at  such  a moment  as  this  who  could  be- 
lieve the  things  which  they  said  about  his  wife  and  Lady  Went- 
worth? No;  they  were  inventions  of  his  enemies;  they  must 
be  base  lies;  so  noble  a presence  could  not  conceal  a guilty 
heart;  he  must  be  as  good  and  virtuous  as  he  was  brave  and 
lovely.  Thus  we  talked,  sitting  in  the  window,  and  thus  we 
cheered  our  souls.  Even  now,  to  think  how  great  and  good 
he  looked  on  that  day,  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  he  was  in 
some  matters  so  vile.  I am  not  of  those  who  expect  one  kind 
of  moral  conduct  from  one  man  and  a different  kind  from  an- 
other; there  is  but  one  set  of  commandments  for  rich  and 
poor,  for  prince  and  peasant.  But  the  pity  of  it — oh!  the 
pity  of  it  with  a prince! 

Never,  in  short,  did  one  see  such  a tumult  of  joy;  it  is  im- 
possible to  speak  otherwise;  the  people  had  lost  their  wits  with 
excess  of  joy.  Nor  did  they  show  their  welcome  in  shouting 
only  for  all  the  doors  were  thrown  wide  open  and  supplies  and 
necessaries  of  all  kinds  were  sent  to  the  soldiers  in  the  camp 
outside  the  town,  so  that  the  country  lads  declared  they  had 
never  fared  more  sumptuously.  There  now  rode  after  the 
duke  several  Non-conformist  ministers  besides  my  father.  Thus 
there  was  the  pious  Mr.  Larke,  of  Lyme;  he  was  an  aged  Bap- 
tist preacher,  who  thought  it  no  shame  to  his  profession  to 
gird  on  a sword  and  to  command  a troop  of  horse;  and  others 
there  were,  whose  names  I forget,  who  had  come  forth  to  join 
the  deliverer. 

In  the  market-place  the  duke  halted,  while  his  declaration 
was  read  aloud.  One  thing  I could  not  approve.  They 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


123 


dragged  forth  three  of  the  justices — High  Churchmen  and 
standing  stoutly  for  King  James — and  forced  them  to  listen, 
bare-headed,  to  the  declaration:  a thing  which  came  near  after- 
ward to  their  destruction.  Yet  they  looked  sour  and  unwill- 
ing, as  any  one  would  have  testified.  The  declaration  was  a 
long  document,  and  the  reading  of  it  took  half  an  hour  at 
least;  but  the  people  cheered  all  the  time. 

After  this  they  read  a proclamation,  warning  the  soldiers 
against  taking  aught  without  payment.  But  Robin  laughed, 
saying  that  this  was  the  way  with  armies,  where  the  general 
was  always  on  the  side  of  virtue,  yet  the  soldiers  were  always 
yielding  to  temptation  in  the  matter  of  sheep  and  poultry,  that 
human  nature  must  not  be  too  much  tempted,  and  camp 
rations  are  sometimes  scanty.  But  it  was  a noble  proclama- 
tion, and  I can  not  but  believe  that  the  robberies  afterward 
complained  of  were  committed  by  the  tattered  crew  who  fol- 
lowed the  camp,  rather  than  by  brave  fellows  themselves. 

The  duke  lay  at  Captain  Hucker*s  house,  over  against  the 
Three  Cups  Inn.  That  was  a great  honor  for  Mr.  Hucker,  a 
plain  serge-maker,  and  there  were  many  who  were  envious, 
thinking  that  the  duke  should  not  have  gone  to  the  house  of 
so  humble  a person.  It  was  also  said  that  for  his  services  Mr. 
Hucker  boasted  that  he  should  expect  nothing  less  than  a 
coronet  and  the  title  of  peer,  once  the  business  was  safely  dis- 
patched. A peer  to  be  made  out  of  a master  serge-maker! 
But  we  must  charitably  refuse  to  believe  all  that  is  reported, 
and,  indeed  (I  say  it  with  sorrow  of  that  most  unfortunate 
lady,  Miss  Blake),  much  idle  tattle  concerning  neighbors  was 
carried  on  in  her  house,  and  I was  told  that  it  was  the  same  in 
every  house  in  Taunton,  so  that  the  women  spent  all  their 
time  in  talking  of  their  neighbors*  affairs,  and  what  might  be 
going  on  in  the  houses  of  their  friends.  This  is  a kind  of  talk 
which  my  father  would  never  permit,  as  testifying  to  idle 
curiosity,  and  leading  to  undue  importance  concerning  things 
which  are  fleeting  and  trivial. 

However,  the  duke  was  bestowed  in  Captain  Hucker’s  best 
bed — of  that  there  was  no  doubt — and  the  bells  rang  and  bon- 
fires played,  and  the  people  sung  and  shouted  in  the  streets. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  MAIDS  OF  TAUNTON. 

The  next  day  was  made  remarkable  in  our  eyes  by  an  event 
which,  though  doubtless  of  less  importance  than  the  enlist- 


124 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


ment  of  a dozen  recruits,  seemed  a very  great  thing  indeed — 
namely,  the  presentation  to  the' duke  of  the  colors  embroidered 
for  him  by  Susan  Blake's  school-girls.  I was  myself  per- 
mitted to  walk  with  the  girls  on  this  occasion,  as  if  I had  been 
one  of  them,  though  a stranger  to  the  place,  and  but  newly  ar- 
rived— such  was  the  kindness  of  Susan  Blake,  and  her  respect 
for  the  name  of  the  learned  and  pious  Dr.  Eykin. 

At  nine  of  the  clock  the  girls  who  were  to  carry  the  flags 
began  to  gather  in  the  school-room.  There  were  twenty-seven 
in  all;  but  twelve  only  were  the  pupils  of  Miss  Blake.  The 
others  were  the  pupils  of  Mrs.  Musgrave,  another  school-mis- 
tress in  the  town.  I remember  not  the  names  of  all  the  girls, 
but  some  of  them  I remember.  One  was  Katharine  Bovet, 
daughter  of  Colonel  Bovet — she  it  was  who  walked  first  and 
named  those  who  followed;  there  was  also  Mary  Blake,  cousin 
of  8usan,  who  was  afterward  thrown  into  prison  with  her  cous- 
in, bat  presently  was  pardoned.  Miss  Hucker,  daughter  of 
Captain  Hucker,  the  master-sergemaker  who  entertained  the 
duke,  was  another — these  were  of  the  White  Regiment;  there 
were  three  daughters  of  Captain  Herring,  two  daughters  of 
Mr.  Thomas  Baker,  one  of  Monmouth's  privy  councillors; 
Mary  Meade  was  the  girl  who  carried  the  famous  golden  flag; 
and  others  whom  I have  forgotten.  When  we  were  assembled, 
being  dressed  all  in  white,  and  each  maid  wearing  the  Mon- 
mouth colors,  we  took  our  flags  and  sallied  forth.  In  the 
street  there  was  almost  as  great  a crowd  to  look  on  as  the  day 
before,  when  the  duke  rode  in;  and  certainly  it  was  a very 
pretty  sight  to  see.  First  marched  a man  playing  on  the  croud 
very  briskly;  after  him,  one  who  beat  a tabor,  and  one  who 
played  a fife;  so  that  we  had  music  oh  our  march.  When  the 
music  stopped,  we  lifted  our  voices  and  sung  a psalm  all  to- 
gether; that  done,  the  crouder  began  again. 

As  for  the  procession,  no  one  surely  had  ever  seen  the  like 
of  it!  After  the  music  walked  six-and- twenty  girls,  the 
youngest  eight  and  the  oldest  not  more  than  twelve.  They 
marched  two  by  two,  very  orderly,  all  dressed  in  white  and 
blue  favors,  and  every  girl  carrying  in  her  hands  a flag  of  silk 
embroidered  by  herself,  assisted  by  Miss  Blake  or  some  other 
older  person,  with  devices  appropriate  to  the  nature  of  the  en- 
terprise in  hand.  For  one  flag  had  upon  it,  truly  figured  in 
scarlet  silk,  an  open  Bible,  because  it  was  for  liberty  to  read 
and  expound  that  book  that  the  men  were  going  forth  to 
fight.  Upon  another  was  embroidered  a great  cross;  upon  a 
third  were  the  arms  of  the  duke;  a fourth  bore  upon  it,  to 
show  the  zeal  of  the  people,  the  arms  of  the  town  of  Taunton; 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


125 


and  a fifth  had  both  a Bible  and* a drawn  sword;  and  so  forth,, 
every  one  with  a legend  embroidered  upon  it  plain  for  all  to 
read.  The  flags  were  affixed  to  stout  white  staves,  and  as  the 
girls  walked  apait  from  each  other  and  at  a due  distance,  the 
flags  all  flying  in  the  wind  made  a pretty  sight  indeed,  so  that 
some  of  the  women  who  looked  on  shed  tears.  Among  the 
flags  was  one  which  I needs  must  mention,  because,  unless  the 
device  was  communicated  by  some  person  deep  in  the  duke's 
counsels,  it  most  strangely  joined  with  the  event  of  the  fol- 
iowing day.  Mary  Meade,  poor  child!  carried  it.  We  called 
it  the  Golden  Flag,  because  it  had  a crown  worked  in  gold 
thread  upon  it  and  the  letters  66  J.  R. " A fringe  of  lace  was 
sewed  round  it,  so  that  it  was  the  richest  flag  of  all.  What 
could  the  crown  with  the  letters  “ J.  R."  mean,  but  that 
James,  Duke  of  Monmouth,  would  shortly  assume  the  crown 
of  these  three  kingdoms? 

Last  of  all  walked  Miss  Susan  Blake,  and  I by  her  side.  She 
bore  in  one  hand  a Bible  bound  in  red  leather  stamped  with 
gold,  and  in  the  other  a naked  sword. 

The  duke  came  forth  to  meet  us,  standing  bareheaded  be- 
fore the  porch.  There  w’ere  standing  beside  and  behind  him. 
Lord  Grey,  his  two  chaplains.  Dr.  Hooke  and  Mr.  Fergu- 
son, and  my  father,  Mr.  Larke,  the  Baptist  minister  of  Lyme- 
Regis  (he  wore  a corselet  and  carried  a sword),  and  the 
colonels  of  his  regiments.  His  body-guard  were  drawn  up 
across  the  street,  looking  brave  and  splendid  in  their  new 
favors.  The  varlets  waited  beyond  with  the  horses  for  the 
duke's  party.  Who,  to  look  upon  the  martial  array,  the 
bravery  of  the  Guard,  the  gallant  bearing  of  all,  the  confi- 
dence in  their  looks,  and  the  presence,  which  should  surely 
bring  a blessing,  of  the  ministers  of  religion,  would  think  that 
all  this  pomp  and  promise  could  be  shattered  at  a single  blow? 

As  each  girl  advanced  in  her  turn,  she  knelt  on  one  knee 
and  offered  her  flag,  bowing  her  head  (we  had  practiced  this 
ceremony  several  times  at  school  until  we  were  all  quite  per- 
fect in  our  parts).  Then  the  duke  stepped  forward  and  raised 
her,  tenderly  kissing  her.  Then  she  stood  aside,  holding  her 
flag  still  in  her  hands. 

My  turn — because  I had  no  flag — came  last  but  one.  Miss 
Susan  Blake  being  the  last.  Now — I hope  it  was  not  folly  or 
a vainglorious  desire  to  be  distinguished  by  any  particular 
notice  of  his  grace — I could  not  refrain  from  hanging  the  ring, 
which  the  duke  had  given  me  at  Ilchester  five  years  ago,  out- 
side my  dress  by  a blue  ribbon.  Miss  Blake,  to  whom  I had 
told  the  story  of  the  ring,  advised  me  to  do  so,  partly  to  show 


126 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


my  loyalty  to  the  duke,  and  partly  because  it  was  a pretty 
thing,  and  one  which  some  women  would  much  desire  to 
possess. 

Miss  Katharine  Bovefc  informed  the  duke  that  I was  the 
daughter  of  the  learned  preacher,  Dr.  Comfort  Eykin.  When 
I knelt  he  raised  me.  Then,  as  he  was  about  to  salute  me, 
his  eyes  fell  upon  the  ring  and  he  looked  first  at  me  and  then 
at  the  ring. 

“ Madame,”  he  said,  “ this  ring  I ought  to  know.  If  I 
mistake  not,  there  are  the  initials  ‘ J.  S.'  upon  it?” 

“Sir,”  I replied,  “the  ring  was  your  own.  Your  grace 
was  so  good  as  to  bestow  it  upon  me  in  your  progress  through 
the  town  of  II Chester,  five  years  ago.” 

“ Gad  so!”  he  said,  laughing;  “ I remember  now.  'Twas  a 
sweet  and  lovely  child  whom  I kissed,  and  now  thou  art  a sweet 
and  lovely  maiden.  Art  thou  truly  the  daughter  of  Doctor 
Comfort  Eykin?”  — he  looked  behind  him,  but  my  father 
neither  heard  nor  attended,  being  wrapped  in  thought.  “ 'Tis 
strange;  his  daughter!  'Tis  indeed  wonderful  that  such  a 
child  should — ” Here  he  stopped.  “ Fair  Rose  of  Somerset 
I called  thee  then.  Fair  Rose  of  Somerset  I call  thee  again. 
Why,  if  I could  place  thee  at  the  head  of  my  army  all  England 
would  certainly  follow,  as  if  Helen  of  Troy  or  Queen  Venus 
herself  did  lead.”  So  he  kissed  me  on  the  cheek  with  much 
warmth — more,  indeed,  than  was  necessary  to  show  a gracious 
and  friendly  good-will,  and  suffered  me  to  step  aside.  “ Doc- 
tor Eykin 's  daughter!”  he  repeated,  with  a kind  of  wonder. 
“ Why  should  not  Doctor  Eykin  have  a daughter?” 

When  I told  Robin  of  this  gracious  salutation  he  first  turned 
very  red  and  then  he  laughed.  Then  he  said  that  everybody 
knew  the  duke,  but  he  must  not  attempt  any  court  freedoms 
in  the  Protestant  camp;  and  if  he  were  to  try — then  he  broke 
off  short,  changed  color  again,  and  then  he  kissed  me,  saying 
that  of  course  the  duke  meant  nothing  but  kindliness,  but 
that,  for  his  own  part,  he  desired  not  his  sweetheart  to  be 
kissed  by  anybody  but  himself.  So  I suppose  my  boy  was 
jealous.  But  the  folly  of  being  jealous  of  so  great  a prince, 
who  could  not  possibly  have  the  least  regard  for  a simple  coun- 
try maiden,  and  who  had  known  the  great  and  beautiful  court 
ladies — it  made  me  laugh  to  think  that  Robin  could  be  so 
foolish  as  to  be  jealous  of  the  duke. 

Then  it  was  Miss  Susan  Blake's  turn.  She  stepped  forward 
very  briskly,  and  knelt  down,  and  placed  the  Bible  in  the 
duke's  left  hand  and  the  sword  in  his  right. 

“ Sir,”  she  said  (speaking  the  words  we  had  made  up  and 


fOE  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


w 


she  had  learned),  “ it  is  in  the  name  of  the  women  of  Taunton 
— nay,  of  the  women  of  all  England — that  I give  you  the  Book 
of  the  Word  of  God,  the  most  precious  treasure  vouchsafed  to 
man,  so  that  all  may  learn  that  you  are  come  for  no  other 
purpose  than  to  maintain  the  right  of  the  English  people  to 
search  the  Scriptures  for  themselves;  and  I give  you  also,  sir, 
a sword  with  which  to  defend  those  rights.  In  addition,  sir, 
the  women  can  only  give  your  grace  the  offering  of  their  con- 
tinual prayers  in  behalf  of  the  cause,  and  for  the  safety  and 
prosperity  of  your  highness  and  your  army.  99 

“ Madame,”  said  the  duke,  much  moved  by  this  spectacle 
of  devotion,  “ I am  come,  believe  me,  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  defend  the  truths  contained  in  this  Book,  and  to  seal 
my  defense  with  my  blood,  if  that  need  be/9 

Then  the  duke  mounted,  and  we  marched  behind  him  in 
single  file,  each  girl  led  by  a soldier,  till  we  came  to  the  camp, 
when  our  flags  were  taken  from  us,  and  we  returned  home 
and  took  off  our  white  dresses.  I confess  that  I laid  mine 
down  with  a sigh.  White  becomes  every  maiden,  and  my  only 
wear  till  then  had  been  of  russet-brown.  And  all  that  day 
we  acted  over  again — in  our  talk  and  in  our  thoughts — our 
beautiful  procession,  and  we  repeated  the  condescending  words 
of  the  duke,  and  admired  the  graciousness  of  his  kisses,  and 
praised  each  other  for  our  admirable  behavior,  and  listened, 
with  pleasure  unspeakable,  while  Susan  Blake  prophesied  that 
we  should  become  immortal  by  the  ceremony  of  that  day. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

KING  MONMOUTH  AND  HIS  CAMP. 

Next  day,  the  town  being  thronged  with  people  and  the 
young  men  pressing  in  from  all  quarters  to  enroll  themselves 
(over  four  thousand  joined  the  colors  at  Taunton  alone),  an- 
other proclamation  was  read — that,  namely,  by  which  the  duke 
claimed  the  throne.  Many  opinions  have  been  given  as  to  this 
step.  For  the  duke’s  enemies  maintain,  first,  that  his  mother 
was  never  married  to  King  Charles  the  Second  (indeed,  there 
is  no  doubt  that  the  king  always  denied  the  marriage) ; next, 
that  an  illegitimate  son  could  never  be  permitted  to  sit  upon 
the  ancient  throne  of  this  realm;  and,  thirdly,  that  in  usurp- 
ing the  crown  the  duke  broke  faith  with  his  friends,  to  whom 
he  had  solemnly  given  his  word  that  he  would  not  put  forward 
any  such  pretensions.  Nay,  some  have  gone  so  far  as  to  allege 
that  he  was  not  the  son  of  Charles  at  all,  but  of  some  other 


128 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


whom  they  even  name;  and  they  have  pointed  to  his  face  as 
showing  no  resemblance  at  all  to  that  swarthy  and  gloomy- 
looking  king.  On  the  other  hand,  the  duke*s  friends  say  that 
there  were  in  his  hands  clear  proof  of  the  marriage;  that  the 
promise  given  to  his  friends  was  conditional,  and  one  which 
could  be  set  aside  by  circumstances;  that  the  country  gentry, 
to  whom  a Republic  was  most  distasteful,  were  afraid  that  he 
designed  to  re-establish  that  form  of  government;  and,  further, 
that  his  friends  were  all  fully  aware  from  the  beginning  of  his 
intentions. 

On  these  points  I know  nothing;  but  when  a thing  has  been 
done,  it  is  idle  to  spend  time  in  arguing  that  it  was  well  or  ill 
done.  James,  Duke  of  Monmouth,  was  now  James,  King  of 
Great  Britain  and  Ireland;  and  if  we  were  all  rebels  before 
who  had  risen  in  the  name  of  religion  and  liberty,  I suppose 
we  were  all  ten  times  as  much  rebels  now,  when  we  had,  in 
addition,  set  up  another  king,  and  declared  King  James  to  be 
a usurper,  and  no  more  than  the  Duke  of  York.  Nay,  that 
there  might  be  wanting  no  single  circumstance  of  aggravation, 
it  was  in  this  proclamation  declared  that  the  Duke  of  York 
had  caused  his  brother,  the  late  king,  to  be  secretly  poisoned. 
I know  not  what  foundation  exists  for  this  accusation;  but  I 
have  been  told  that  it  gave  offense  unto  many,  and  that  it  was 
an  ill-advised  thing  to  say. 

The  proclamation  was  read  aloud  at  the  Market  Cross  by 
Mr.  Tyley,  of  Taunton,  on  the  Saturday  morning,  before  a 
great  concourse  of  people.  It  ended  with  the  words:  ttf  We 
therefore,  the  noblemen,  gentlemen,  and  Commons  at  present 
assembled  in  the  names  of  ourselves  and  of  all  the  loyal  and 
Protestant  noblemen,  gentlemen  and  Commons  of  England, 
in  pursuance  of  our  duty  and  allegiance,  and  for  the  deliver- 
ing of  the  kingdom  from  Popery,  tyranny,  and  oppression,  do 
recognize,  publish,  and  proclaim  the  said  high  and  mighty 
Prince  James,  Duke  of  Monmouth,  as  lawful  and  rightful  sov- 
ereign and  king,  by  the  name  of  James  II.,  by  the  grace  of 
God,  King  of  England,  Scotland,  France  and  Ireland,  De- 
fender of  the  Faith.  God  save  the  king!” 

After  this  the  duke  was  always  saluted  as  king,  prayed  for 
as  king,  and  styled  “ His  Majesty.”  He  also  touched  some 
(as  only  the  king  can  do)  for  the  king's-evil,  and,  it  is  said, 
wrought  many  miracles  of  healing,  a thing  which,  being 
noised  abroad,  should  have  strengthened  the  faith  of  the  peo- 
ple in  him.  But  the  malignity  of  our  enemies  caused  these 
cases  of  healing  to  be  denied,  or  else  explained  as  fables  and 
inventions  of  the  duke’s  friends. 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


129 


Among  the  accessions  of  this  day  was  one  which  I can  not 
forbear  to  mention.  It  was  that  of  an  old  soldier  who  had 
been  one  of  CromwelFs  captains,  Colonel  Basset  byname.  He 
rode  in,  being  a man  advanced  in  years,  yet  still  strong  and 
hale,  at  the  head  of  a considerable  company  raised  by  himself. 
’Twas  hoped  that  his  example  would  be  followed  by  the  adhesion 
of  many  more  of  CromwelFs  men,  but  the  event  proved  other- 
wise. Perhaps,  being  old  Republicans,  they  were  deterred  by 
the  proclamation  of  Monmouth  as  king.  Perhaps  they  had 
grown  slothful  with  age,  and  were  now  unwilling  to  face  once 
more  the  dangers  and  fatigues  of  a campaign.  Another  re- 
cruit was  the  once  famous  Colonel  Perrot,  who  had  been  en- 
gaged with  Colonel  Blood  in  the  robbery  of  the  crown  jewels 
— though  the  addition  of  a robber  to  our  army  was  not  a mat- 
ter of  pride.  He  came,  it  was  afterward  said,  because  he  was 
desperate,  his  fortunes  broken,  and  with  no  other  hope  than 
to  follow  the  fortunes  of  the  duke. 

It  became  known  in  the  course  of  the  day  that  the  army  was 
to  march  on  the  Sunday.  Therefore  everybody  on  Saturday 
evening  repaired  to  the  camp;  some  to  bid  farewell  and  God- 
speed to  their  friends,  and  others  to  witness  the  humors  of  a 
camp.  I was  fortunate  in  having  Robin  for  a companion  and 
protector,  the  place  being  rough,  and  the  behavior  and  lan- 
guage of  the  men  coarse  even  beyond  what  one  expects  at  a 
country  fair.  The  recruits  still  kept  pouring  in  from  all  parts; 
but,  as  I have  already  said,  many  were  disheartened  when  they 
found  that  there  were  no  arms,  and  went  home  again.  They 
were  not  all  riotous  and  disorderly.  Some  of  the  men' — those, 
namely,  who  were  older  and  more  sober-minded — we  found, 
gathered  together  in  groups,  earnestly  engaged  in  conversa- 
tion. 

“ They  are  considering  the  proclamation,”  said  Robin. 
“ Truly  we  did  not  expect  that  our  duke  would  so  soon  become 
king.  They  say  he  is  illegitimate.  What  then?  Let  him 
mount  the  throne  by  right  of  arms,  as  Oliver  Cromwell  could 
have  done  had  he  pleased;  who  asks  whether  Oliver  was 
illegitimate  or  no?  The  country  will  not  have  another  Com- 
monwealth, and  it  will  no  longer  endure  a Catholic  king.  Let 
us  have  King  Monmouth,  then;  who  is  there  better?” 

In  all  the  camp  there  was  none  who  spoke  with  greater 
cheerfulness  and  confidence  than  Robin.  Yet  he  did  not  dis- 
guise from  himself  that  there  might  be  warm  work. 

“ The  king’s  troops,”  he  said,  “ are  closing  in  all  round  us. 
That  is  certain.  Yet  even  if  they  all  join  we  are  still  more 

numerous  and  in  much  better  heart;  of  that  I am  assured, 
s 


130 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


At  Wellington,,  the  Duke  of  Albemarle  commands  the  Devon- 
shire Militia;  Lord  Churchill  is  at  Chard  with  the  Somerset 
Regiment;  Lord  Bath  is  reported  to  be  marching  upon  us  with 
the  Cornishmen;  the  Duke  of  Beaufort  hath  the  Gloucester 
Militia  at  Bristol;  Lord  Pembroke  is  at  Chippenham  with  the 
Wiltshire  Train-bands;  Lord  Feversham  is  on  the  march  with 
the  king's  standing  army.  What  then?  Are  these  men  Pro- 
testants or  are  they  Papists?  Answer  me  that,  sweetheart?" 

Alas!  had  they  been  true  Protestants  there  would  have  been 
such  an  answer  as  would  have  driven  King  James  across  the 
water  three  years  sooner. 

The  camp  was  now  like  a fair,  only  much  finer  and  bigger 
than  any  fair  I had  ever  seen.  That  of  Lyme-Regis  could  not 
be  compared  with  it.  There  were  booths  where  they  sold  gin- 
gerbread, cakes,  ale,  and  cider;  Monmouth  favors  for  the  re- 
cruits to  sew  upon  their  hats  or  sleeves;  shoes  and  stockings 
were  sold  in  some,  and  even  chap-books  were  displayed.  Men 
and  women  carried  about  in  baskets  last  year's  withered  ap- 
ples, with  Kentish  cobs  and  walnuts;  there  were  booths  where 
they  fried  sausages  and  roasted  pork  all  day  long;  tumblers 
and  clowns  were  performing  in  others;  painted  and  dressed-up 
girls  danced  in  others;  there  was  a bull-baiting;  a man  was 
making  a fiery  oration  on  the  duke's  proclamation;  but  I saw 
no  one  preaching  a sermon.  There  were  here  and  there  com- 
panies of  country  lads  exercising  with  pike  and  halbert;  and 
others,  more  advanced,  with  the  loading  and  firing  of  their 
muskets.  There  were  tables  at  which  sat  men  with  cards  and 
dice  gambling,  shouting  when  they  won  and  cursing  when  they 
lost;  others,  of  more  thrifty  mind,  sat  on  the  ground,  prac- 
ticing their  trade  of  tailor  or  cobbler,  thus  losing  no  money 
though  they  did  go  soldiering;  some  polished  weapons  and 
sharpened  swords,  pikes,  and  scythes;  nowhere  did  we  find 
any  reading  the  Bible,  or  singing  hymns,  or  listening  to  ser- 
mons. Save  for  the  few  groups  of  sober  men  of  whom  I have 
spoken,  the  love  of  amusement  carried  all  away;  and  the 
officers  of  the  army,  who  might  have  turned  them  back  to  sober 
thought,  were  not  visible.  Everywhere  noise;  everywhere 
beating  of  drums,  playing  of  pipes,  singing  of  songs,  bawling 
and  laughing.  Among  the  men  there  ran  about  a number  of 
saucy  gypsy  girls,  their  brown  faces  showing  under  red  ker- 
chiefs, their  black  eyes  twinkling  (truly  they  are  pretty  creat- 
ures to  look  upon  when  they  are  young;  but  they  have  no  re- 
ligion, and  say  of  themselves  that  they  had  no  souls).  These 
girls  talked  with  each  other  in  their  own  language,  which  none 
out  of  their  own  nation — except  the  tinker-folk,  who  are  said 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


131 


to  be  their  cousins — understand.  But  English  they  talk  very 
well,  and  they  are  so  clever  that,  it  is  said,  they  will  talk  to  a 
Somersetshire  mam.  in  good  broad  Somerset,  and  to  a man  of 
Norfolk  in  his  own  speech,  though  he  of  Norfolk  would  not 
understand  him  of  Somerset. 

“ They  are  the  vultures/*  said  Robin,  “ who  follow  for 
prey.  Before  the  battle  these  women  cajole  the  soldiers  out  of 
their  money,  and  after  the  battle  their  men  rob  and  even  mur- 
der the  wounded  and  plunder  the  dead.** 

Then  one  of  them  ran  and  stood  before  us. 

“Let  me  tell  thy ‘fortune,  handsome  gentleman?  Let  me 
tell  thine,  fair  lady?  A sixpence  or  a groat  to  cross  my  palm, 
captain,  and  you  shall  know*all  that  is  to  happen.  ** 

Robin  laughed,  but  gave  her  sixpence. 

“ Look  me  in  the  face,  fair  lady  ** — she  spoke  good  plain 
English,  this  black-eyed  wench,  though  but  a moment  before 
she  had  been  talking  broad  Somerset  to  a young  recruit — 
“ look  me  in  the  face;  yes.  All  is  not  smooth.  He  loves 
you,  but  there  will  be  separation  and  trouble.  One  comes 
between,  a big  man  with  a red  face;  he  parts  you.  There  is  a 
wedding;  I see  your  ladyship  plain.  Why,  you  are  crying  at 
it,  you  cry  all  the  time;  but  I do  not  see  this  gentleman. 
Then  there  is  another  wedding — yes,  another — and  I see  you 
at  both.  You  will  be  twice  married.  ' Yet  be  of  good  heart, 
fair  lady.** 

She  turned  away  and  ran  after  another  couple,  no  doubt 
with  much  the  same  tale. 

“ How  should  there  be  a wedding,**  I asked,  “ if  I am  there 
and  you  not  there,  Robin — and  I to  be  crying?  And  how 
could  I — oh,  Robin! — how  could  I be  married  twice?** 

“ Nay,  sweetheart,  she  could  not  tell  what  wedding  it  was. 
She  only  uttered  the  gibberish  of  her  trade;  I am  sorry  that  I 
wasted  a sixpence  upon  her.** 

“ Robin,  is  it  magic  that  they  practice — these  gypsies?  Do 
they  traffic  with  the  devil?  We  ought  not  to  suffer  witches  to 
live  among  us.** 

“ Most  are  of  opinion  that  they  have  no  other  magic  than 
the  art  of  guessing,  which  they  learn  to  do  very  quickly,  put- 
ting things  together  from  their  appearance;  so  that  if  brother 
and  sister  walk  out  together  they  are  taken  to  be  lovers,  and 
promised  a happy  marriage  and  many  children.** 

That  may  be  so,  and  perhaps  the  fortune  told  by  this 
gypsy  was  only  guess-work.  But  I can  not  believe  it;  for  the 
event  proved  that  she  had  in  reality  possessed  an  exact  knowl- 
edge of  what  was  about  to  happen. 


132 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


Some  of  the  gypsy  women — but  these  were  the  older  women, 
who  had  lost  their  good  looks,  though  not  their  impudence — 
were  singing  songs,  and  those,  as  Eobin  told*me,  songs  not  fit 
to  be  sung;  and  one  old  crone,  sitting  before  her  tent  beside  a 
roaring  wood  fire  over  which  hung  a great  saucepan,  sold 
charms  against  shot  and  steel.  The  lads  bought  these  greedily, 
giving  sixpence,  apiece  for  them,  so  that  the  old  witch  must 
have  made  a sackful  of  money.  They  came  and  looked  on 
shyly.  Then  one  would  say  to  the  other:  “ What  thinkest, 
lad?  Is  there  aught  in  it?”  And  the  other  would  say: 
“ Truly  I know  not;  but  she  is  a proper  witch,  and  IT1  buy 
one.  We  may  have  to  fight.  Best  make  sure  of  a whole 
skin.”  And  so  he  bought  one,*and  then  all  bought.  The 
husbands  of  the  gypsy  women  were  engaged,  meantime,  we 
understood,  in  robbing  the  farm-yards  in  the  neighborhood, 
the  blame  being  afterward  laid  upon  our  honest  soldiers. 

Then  there  was  a ballad-monger  singing  a song  about  a man 
and  a broom,  and  selling  it  (to  those  who  would  buy),  printed 
on  a long  slip  of  paper.  The  first  lines  were, 

‘ There  was  an  old  man,  and  he  lived  in  a wood, 

And  his  trade  it  was  making  a broom.” 

But  I heard  no  more,  because  Eobin  hurried  me  away.  Then 
there  were  some  who  drank  too  much  cider  or  beer,  and  were 
now  reeling  about  with  stupid  faces  and  glassy  eyes;  there  were 
some  who  were  lying  speechless  or  asleep  upon  the  grass;  and 
some  were  cooking  supper  over  fires  after  the  manner  of  the 
gypsies. 

“ I have  seen  enough,  Eobin,”  I said.  “ Alas  for  sacred 
religion  if  these  are  her  defenders!” 

“ *Tis  always  so,”  said  Eobin,  “ in  time  of  war.  We  must 
encourage  our  men  to  keep  up  their  hearts.  Should  we  be 
constantly  reminding  them  that  to-morrow  half  of  them  may 
be  lying  dead  on  the  battle-field?  Then  they  would  mope  and 
hang  their  heads,  and  would  presently  desert.” 

“ One  need  not  preach  of  death,  but  one  should  preach  of 
godliness  and  of  sober  joy.  Look  but  at  those  gypsy  wenches 
and  those  lads  rolling  about  drunk.  Are  these  things  decent? 
If  they  escape  the  dangers  of  war,  will  it  make  them  happy  to 
look  back  upon  the  memory  of  this  camp?  Is  it  fit  prepara- 
tion to  meet  their  Maker?” 

“ In  times  of  peace,  sweet  saint,  these  lads  remember  easily 
that  in  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death,  and  they  govern 
themselves  accordingly.  In  times  of  war  every  man  hopes  for 
his  own  part  to  escape  with  a whole  skin,  though  his  neighbor 


FOR  FAITH  A HD  FREEDOM, 


133 


fall.  That  is  why  we  are  all  so  blithe  and  jolly.  Let  us  now 
go  home  before  the  night  falls  and  the  mirth  becomes  riotous 
and  unseemly.” 

We  passed  a large  booth  whence  there  issued  sounds  of  sing- 
ing. It  was  a roofless  inclosure  of  canvas.  Some  ale-house 
man  of  Taunton  had  set  it  up.  Robin  drew  aside  the  canvas 
door. 

“ Look  in/'  he  said.  “ See  the  brave  defenders  of  religion 
keeping  up  their  hearts.  ” 

It  was  furnished  with  benches  and  rough  tables;  at  one  end 
were  casks.  The  benches  were  crowded  with  soldiers,  every 
man  with  a pot  before  him,  and  the  varlets  were  running  back- 
ward and  forward  with  cans  of  ale  and  cider.  Most  of  the 
men  were  smoking  pipes  of  tobacco,  and  they  were  singing  a 
song  which  seemed  to  have  no  end.  One  bawled  the  lines, 
and  when  it  came  to  the  “ Let  the  hautboys  play!”  and  the 
“ Huzza!”  they  all  roared  out  together. 

“ Now,  now,  the  duke’s  health, 

And  let  the  hautboys  play, 

While  the  troops  on  their  march  shall 

Huzza!  huzza!  huzza! 

Now,  now,  the  duke’s  health, 

And  let  the  hautboys  play, 

While  the  drums  and  the  trumpets  sound  from  the  shore. 

Huzza!  huzza!  huzza!” 

They  sung  this  verse  several  times  over.  Then  another  be- 
gan: 

“ Now,  now,  Lord  Grey’s  health, 

And  let  the  hautboys  play. 

While  the  troops  on  their  march  shall 

Huzza!  huzza!  huzza; 

Now,  now,  Lord  Grey’s  health, 

And  let  the  hautboys  play. 

While  the  drums  and  the  trumpets  sound  from  the  shore. 

Huzza!  huzza!  huzza!” 

Next  a third  voice  took  it  up: 

“ Now,  now,  the  colonel’s  health, 

And  let  the  hautboys  play;” 

and  then  a fourth  and  a fifth,  and  the  last  verse  was  bawled  as 
lustily  and  with  so  much  joy  that  one  would  have  thought  the 
mere  singing  would  have  gotten  them  the  victory.  Men  are 
so  made,  I suppose,  that  they  can  not  work  together  without 
singing  and  music  to  keep  up  their  hearts.  Sailors  sing  when 


134 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


they  weigh  anchor;  men  who  unlade  ships  sing  as  they  carry 
out  the  bales;  even  CromwelFs  Ironsides  could  not  march  in 
silence,  but  sung  psalms  as  they  marched. 

The  sun  was  set  and  the  twilight  falling  when  we  left  the 
camp;  and  there  was  no  abatement  of  the  roaring  and  singing, 
but  rather  an  increase. 

“ They  will  go  on,”  said  Eobin,  “ until  the  drink  or  their 
money  gives  out;  then  they  will  lie  down  and  sleep.  You  have 
now  seen  a camp,  sweetheart.  It  is  not,  truth  to  say,  as  decor- 
ous as  a conventicle,  nor  is  the  talk  so  godly  as  in  Sir  Christo- 
pher’s hall.  For  rough  fellows  there  must  be  rough  play;  in 
a month  these  lads  will  be  veterans;  the  singing  will  have 
grown  stale  to  them;  the  black-eyed  gypsy  women  will  have 
no  more  power  to  charm  away  their  money;  they  will  under- 
stand the  meaning  of  war;  the  camp  will  be  sober  if  it  is  not 
religious.” 

So  we  walked  homeward,  I,  for  my  part,  saddened  to  think 
in  what  a spirit  of  riot  these  young  men,  whom  I had  pictured 
so  full  of  godly  zeal,  were  preparing  to  meet  the  chance  of  im- 
mediate death  and  judgment. 

66  Sweet,”  said  Eobin,  “ I read  thy  thoughts  in  thy  troubled 
eyes.  Pray  for  us.  Some  of  us  will  fight  none  the  worse  for 
knowing  that  there  are  good  women  who  pray  for  them.  ” 

We  were  now  back  in  the  town;  the  streets  were  still  full  of 
people,  and  no  one  seemed  to  think  of  bed.  Presently  we 
passed  the  Castle  Inn;  the  windows  were  open  and  we  could  see 
a great  company  of  gentlemen  sitting  round  a table  on  which 
were  candles  lighted  and  bowls  full  of  strong  drink;  nearly 
every  man  had  his  pipe  at  his  lips  and  his  glass  before  him, 
and  one  of  them  was  singing  to  the  accompaniment  of  a 
guitar.  Their  faces  were  red  and  swollen,  as  if  they  had  taken 
too  much.  At  one  end  of  the  table  sat  Humphrey.  What? 
Could  Humphrey  too  be  a reveler  with  the  rest?  His  face, 
which  was  gloomy,  and  his  eyes,  which  were  sad,  showed  that 
he  was  not. 

“ The  officers  have  supped  together,”  said  Eobin.  “ It 
may  be  long  before  we  get  such  good  quarters  again.  A cup 
of  hipsy  and  a song  in  good-fellowship,  thou  wilt  not  grudge 
so  much?” 

“ Nay,”  I said,  “ Tis  all  of  a piece.  Like  man,  like  mas- 
ter. Officers  and  men  alike — all  drinking  and  singing.  Is 
there  not  one  good  man  in  all  the  army?” 

As  I spoke  one  finished  a song  at  which  all  laughed  except 
Humphrey,  and  drummed  the  table  with  their  fists  and 
shouted. 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM.  135 

Then  one  who  seemed  to  be  president  of  the  table  turned  to 
Humphrey. 

“ Doctor/*  he  said,  “ thou  wilt  not  drink,  thou  dost  not 
laugh,  and  thou  hast  not  sung.  Thou  must  be  tried  by  court- 
martial,  and  the  sentence  of  the  court  is  a brimming  glass  of 
punch  or  a song.** 

“ Then,  gentlemen/*  said  Humphrey,  smiling,  “ I will  give 
you  a song.  But  blame  me  not  if  you  mislike  it;  I made  the 
song  in  praise  of  the  sweetest  woman  in  the  world.**  He  took 
the  guitar  and  struck  the  strings.  When  he  began  to  sing 
my  cheeks  flamed  and  my  breath  came  and  went,  for  I knew 
the  song;  he  had  given  it  to  me  four  years  agone.  Who  was 
the  sweetest  woman  in  the  world?  Oh!  he  made  this  song  for 
me! — he  made  this  song  for  me,  and  none  but  me!  But  these 
rude  revelers  would  not  know  that — and  I never  guessed  that 
the  song  was  for  me.  How  could  I think  that  he  would  write 
these  extravagancies  for  me?  But  poets  can  not  mean  what 
they  say — 


“ As  rides  the  moon  in  azure  skies, 

The  twinkling  stars  beside, 

As  when  in  splendor  she  doth  rise, 

Their  lesser  lights  they  hide, 

So  beside  Celia,  when  her  face  we  see, 

All  unregarded  other  maidens  be. 

“ As  Helen  in  the  town  of  Troy 
Shone  fair  beyond  all  thought, 

That  to  behold  her  was  a joy 
By  death  too  poorly  bought, 

So  when  fair  Celia  deigns  the  lawn  to  grace, 

All  life,  all  joy,  dwells  in  her  lovely  face. 

“ As  the  sweet  river  floweth  by 
Green  banks  and  alders  tall. 

It  stayeth  not  for  prayer  or  sigh, 

Nor  answereth  if  we  call, 

So  Celia  heeds  not  though  Love  cry  and  weep; 

She  heavenward  wendeth  while  we  earthward  creep. 

“ The  marbled  saint,  so  cold  and  pure, 

Minds  naught  of  earthly  ways, 

Nor  can  man’s  gauds  entice  or  lure 
That  fixSd  heavenly  gaze; 

So,  Celia,  though  thou  queen  and  empress  art, 

To  Heaven,  to  Heaven  alone,  belongs  thy  heart.” 

Now  while  Humphrey  sung  this  song  a hush  fell  upon  the 
revelers:  they  had  expected  nothing  but  a common  drinking 
song.  After  the  bawling  and  the  noise  and  the  ribaldry  *twas 


136 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


like  a breath  of  fresh  air  after  the  closeness  of  a prison,  or  like 
a drink  of  pure  water  to  one  half  dead  with  thirst. 

“ Robin/'  I said,  “ there  is  one  good  man  in  the  camp."  I 
say  that  while  Humphrey  sung  this  song — which,  to  be  sure, 
was  neither  a drinking  song,  nor  a party  song,  nor  a song  of 
wickedness  and  folly — the  company  looked  at  each  other  in 
silence,  and  neither  laughed  nor  offered  to  interrupt.  Nay, 
there  were  signs  of  grace  in  some  of  their  faces,  which  became 
grave  and  thoughtful.  When  Humphrey  finished  it  he  laid 
down  the  guitar,  and  rose  up  with  a bow,  saying:  “I  have 
sung  my  song,  gentlemen  all,  and  so,  good-night/'  and  walked 
out  of  the  room. 

“ Robin,"  I said  again,  “ thank  God  there  is  one  good  man 
in  the  camp!  I had  forgotten  Humphrey." 

“ Yes,"  Robin  replied,  “ Humphrey  is  a good  man  if  ever 
there  was  one.  But  he  is  glum.  Something  oppresses  him. 
His  eyes  are  troubled,  and  he  hangs  his  head;  or  if  he  laughs 
at  all,  it  is  as  if  he  would  rather  cry.  Yet  all  the  way  home 
from  Holland  he  was  joyful,  save  when  his  head  was  held  over 
the  side  of  the  ship.  He  sung  and  laughed;  he  spoke  of  great 
things  about  to  happen.  I have  never  known  him  more  hap- 
py. And  now  his  face  is  gloomy,  and  he  sighs  when  he  thinks 
no  one  watcheth  him.  Perhaps,  like  thee,  sweet,  he  can  not 
abide  the  noise  and  riot  of  the  camp.  He  would  fain  see  every 
man  Bible  in  hand.  To-day  he  spent  two  hours  with  the  duke 
before  the  council,  and  was  with  thy  father  afterward.  ^Tis 
certain  that  the  duke  hath  great  confidence  in  him.  Why  is 
he  so  gloomy?  He  bitterly  reproached  me  for  leaving  Sir 
Christopher,  as  if  he  alone  had  a conscience  to  obey  or  honor 
to  remember!" 

Humphrey  came  forth  at  this  moment  and  stood  for  a mo- 
ment on  the  steps.  Then  he  heaved  a great  sigh  and  walked 
away  slowly,  with  hanging  head,  not  seeing  us. 

“ What  is  the  matter  with  him?"  said  Robin.  “ Perhaps 
they  flout  him  for  being  a physician.  These  fellows  have  no 
respect  for  learning  or  for  any  one  who  is  not  a country  gen- 
tleman. Well,  perhaps  when  we  are  on  the  march  he  will 
again  pick  up  his  spirits.  They  are  going  to  sing  again. 
Shall  we  go,  child?" 

But  the  president  called  a name  which  made  me  stop  a little 
longer. 

“ Barnaby!"  he  cried;  “ jolly  Captain  Barnaby!  Now  that 
Doctor  Graveairs  hath  left  us  we  will  begin  the  night.  Barna- 
by, my  hero,  thy  song.  Fill  up,  gentlemen!  The  night  is 


FOE  FAITH  AND  FEEEDOM.  137 

young,  and  to-morrow  we  march.  Captain  Barnaby,  tip  us  a 
sea-song.  Silence,  gentlemen,  for  the  captain's  song!" 

It  was  my  brother  that  they  called  upon — none  other.  He 
got  up  from  his  place  at  the  summons,  and  rose  to  his  feet. 
Heavens!  what  a broad  man  he  seemed  compared  with  those 
who  sat  beside  him!  His  face  was  red  and  his  cheeks  swollen 
because  of  the  strong  drink  he  had  taken.  In  his  hand  he 
held  a full  glass  of  it.  Bobin  called  it  hipsy,  and  it  is  a mixt- 
ure of  wine,  brandy,  and  water,  with  lemon  juice  and  sugar — 
very  heady  and  strong. 

Said  not  Barnaby  that  there  was  one  religion  for  a landsman 
and  another  for  a sailor?  I thought  of  that  as  he  stood  look- 
ing round  him.  If  it  were  so,  it  would  be  truly  a happy  cir- 
cumstance for  most  sailors;  but  I know  not  on  what  assurance 
this  belief  can  be  argued.  Then  Barnaby  waved  his  hand. 

“ Yoho,  my  lads!"  he  shouted.  “ The  ship's  in  port,  and 
the  crew  has  gone  ashore." 

Then  he  began  to  sing  in  a deep  voice  which  made  the 
glasses  ring: 

“ Shut  the  door,  lock  the  door, 

Out  of  the  window  fling  the  key; 

Hasten;  bring  me  more,  bring  me  more; 

Fill  it  up — fill  it  up  for  me. 

The  daylight  which  you  think, 

The  daylight  which  you  think, 

The  daylight  which  you  think, 

’Tis  but  the  candle’s  flicker; 

The  morning  star  will  never  wink 
The  morning  star  will  never  wink, 

Till  there  cometh  stint  of  liquor. 

For  ’tis  tipple,  tipple,  tipple  all  around  the  world,  my  lads, 

And  the  sun  in  drink  is  nightly  lapped  and  curled; 

And  to-night  let  us  drink,  and  to-morrow  we’ll  to  sea, 

For  ’tis  tipple,  tipple,  tipple— yes,  ’tis  tipple,  tipple,  tipple — Makes 
the  world  and  us  to  jee.” 

“ Take  me  home,  Bobin,"  I said;  “ I have  seen  and  heard 
enough.  Alas!  we  have  need  of  all  the  prayers  that  we  can 
utter  from  the  depths  of  our  heart,  and  more." 


CHAPTEB  XX. 

benjamin's  waening. 

Since  I have  so  much  to  tell  of  Benjamin's  evil  conduct,  it 
must  in  justice  be  recorded  of  him  that  at  this  juncture  he  en- 
deavored, knowing  more  of  the  world  than  we  of  Somerset,  to 


138 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


warn  and  dissuade  his  cousins  from  taking  part  in  any  attempt 
which  should  be  made  in  the  west.  And  this  he  did  by  means 
of  a letter  written  to  his  father.  I know  not  how  far  the  let- 
ter might  have  succeeded,  but,  unfortunately,  it  arrived  two 
or  three  days  too  late— when  the  boys  had  already  joined  the 
insurgents. 

“ Honored  Sir”  (he  wrote), — “ I write  this  epistle  being 
much  concerned  in  spirit  lest  my  grandfather,  whose  leanings 
are  well  known,  not  only  in  his  own  county,  but  also  to  the 
court,  should  be  drawn  into,  or  become  cognizant  of,  some  at- 
tempt to  raise  the  West  Country  against  their  lawful  king.  It 
will  not  be  news  to  you  that  the  Earl  of  Argyll  hath  landed  in 
Scotland,  where  he  will  meet  with  such  a reception  which  will 
doubtless  cause  him  to  repent  of  his  rashness.  It  is  also  cur- 
rently reported,  and  everywhere  believed,  that  the  Duke  of 
Monmouth  intends  immediately  to  embark  and  cross  the  sea 
with  the  design  of  raising  the  country  in  rebellion.  The  Dis- 
senters, who  have  been  going  about  with  sour  looks  for  five- 
and-twenty  years,  venture  now  to  smile  and  look  pleased  in 
anticipation  of  another  civil  war.  This  may  follow,  but  its 
termination,  I think,  will  not  be  what  they  expect. 

“ I have  also  heard  that  my  cousin  Humphrey,  Doctor 
EykhPs  favorite  pupil,  who  hath  never  concealed  his  opinions, 
hath  lately  returned  from  Holland  (where  the  exiles  are  gath- 
ered), and  passed  through  London,  accompanied  by  Eobin. 
I have  further  learned  that  while  in  London  he  visited  (but 
alone,  without  Eobin’s  knowledge)  many  of  those  who  are 
known  to  be  friends  of  the  duke  and  red-hot  Protestants. 
Wherefore  I greatly  fear  that  he  hath  been  in  correspondence 
with  the  exiles,  and  is  cognizant  of  their  designs,  and  may 
even  be  their  messenger  to  announce  the  intentions  of  his  Prot- 
estant champion.  Certain  I am  that  should  any  chance  occur 
of  striking  a blow  for  freedom  of  worship,  my  cousin,  though 
he  is  weak  and  of  slender  frame,  will  join  the  attempt.  He 
will  also  endeavor  to  draw  after  him  every  one  in  his  power. 
Therefore,  my  dear  father,  use  all  your  influence  to  withstand 
him,  and,  if  he  must  for  his  part  plunge  into  ruin,  persuade 
my  grandfather  and  my  cousin  Eobin  to  stay  quiet  at  home. 

“ I hear  it  on  the  best  authority  that  the  temper  of  the 
country,  and  especially  in  your  part  of,  it,  hath  been  carefully 
studied  by  the  Government,  and  is  perfectly  well  known. 
Those  who  would  risk  life  and  lands  for  the  Duke  of  Mon- 
mouth are  few  indeed.  He  may,  perhaps,  draw  a rabble  after 
him,  but  no  more.  The  fat  tradesmen  who  most  long  for  the 


FOR  FAITH  AKD  FREEDOM. 


139 


conventicle  will  not  fight,  though  they  may  pray  for  him.  The 
country  gentlemen  may  he  Protestants,,  but  they  are  mostly 
for  the  Church  of  England  and  the  king.  It  is  quite  true  that 
his  majesty  is  a Roman  Catholic,  nor  hath  he  ever  concealed 
or  denied  his  religion,  being  one  who  scorns  deceptions.  It  is 
also  true  that  his  profession  of  faith  is  a stumbling-block  to 
many  who  find  it  hard  to  reconcile  their  teaching  of  Non-Re- 
sistance and  Divine  Right  with  the  introduction  of  the  mass  and 
the  Romish  priest.  But  the  country  hath  not  yet  forgotten 
the  iron  rule  of  the  Independent;  and  rather  than  suffer  him 
to  return,  the  people  will  endure  a vast  deal  of  royal  preroga- 
tive. 

“ It  is  absolutely  certain — assure  my  grandfather  on  this 
point,  whatever  he  may  learn  from  Humphrey — that  the  bet- 
ter sort  will  never  join  Monmouth,  whether  he  comes  as  an- 
other Cromwell  to  restore  the  commonwealth,  or  whether  he 
aspires  to  the  crown,  and  dares  to  maintain — a thing  which 
King  Charles  did  always  stoutly  deny — that  his  mother  was 
married.  Is  it  credible  that  the  ancient  throne  of  these  king- 
doms should  be  mounted  by  the  base-born  son  of  Lucy  Waters? 

“ I had  last  night  the  honor  of  drinking  a bottle  of  wine 
with  that  great  lawyer.  Sir  George  Jeffreys.  The  conversation 
turned  upon  this  subject.  We  were  assured  by  the  judge  that 
the  affectionS  of  the  people  are  wholly  with  the  king;  that  the 
liberty  of  worship  which  he  demands  for  himself  he  will  extend 
to  the  country,  so  that  the  last  pretense  of  reason  for  disaffec- 
tion shall  be  removed.  Why  should  the  people  run  after  Mon- 
mouth, when,  if  he  were  successful,  he  would  give  no  more 
than  the  king  is  ready  to  give?  I was  also  privately  warned 
by  Sir  George  that  my  grandfather’s  name  is  unfavorably 
noted,  and  his  actions  and  speeches  will  be  watched.  There- 
fore, sir,  I humbly  beg  that  you  will  represent  to  him,  and  to 
my  cousins,  and  to  Doctor  Eykin  himself,  first  the  hopeless- 
ness of  any  such  enterprise  and  the  certainty  of  defeat;  and 
next  the  punishment  which  will  fall  upon  the  rebels  and  upon 
those  who  lend  them  any  countenance.  Men  of  such  a tem- 
per as  Doctor  Comfort  Eykin  will  doubtless  go  to  the  scaffold 
willingly,  with  their  mouths  full  of  the  texts  which  they  apply 
to  themselves  on  all  occasions.  For  such  I have  no  pity,  yet 
for  the  sake  of  his  wife  and  daughter  I would  willingly,  if  I 
could,  save  him  from  the  fate  which  will  be  his  if  Monmouth 
lands  on  the  west.  And  as  for  my  grandfather,  ’tis  terrible  to 
think  of  his  white  hairs  blown  by  the  breeze  while  the  hang- 
man adjusts  the  knot;  and  I should  shudder  to  see  the  black- 
ened limbs  of  Robin  stuck  upon  j)oles  for  all  the  world  to  see. 


140 


FOE  FAITH  AFTD  FREEDOM. 


“ It  is  my  present  intention,  if  my  affairs  permit,  to  follow 
my  fortunes  on  the  western  circuit  in  the  autumn,  when  I 
shall  endeavor  to  ride  from  Taunton  or  Exeter  to  Bradford 
Orcas.  My  practice  grows  apace.  Daily  I am  heard  in  the 
courts.  The  judges  already  know  me  and  listen  to  me.  The 
juries  begin  to  fee]  the  weight  of  my  arguments.  The  attor- 
neys besiege  my  chambers.  For  a junior  I am  in  great  de- 
mand. It  is  my  prayer  that  you,  sir,  may  live  to  see  your  son 
chancellor  of  the  exchequer  and  a peer  of  the  realm.  Less 
than  chancellor  will  not  content  me.  As  for  marriage,  that 
might  hinder  my  rise;  I shall  not  marry  yet.  There  is  in  your 
parish,  sir,  one  who  knows  my  mind  upon  this  matter.  I shall 
be  pleased  to  think  that  you  will  assure  her — you  know  very 
well  whom  I mean — that  my  mind  is  unaltered,  and  that  my 
way  is  now  plain  before  me.  So,  I remain,  with  dutiful  re- 
spect, your  obedient  son,  B.  B.  ” 

This  letter  arrived,  I say,  after  the  departure  of  Robin  with 
his  company  of  village  lads. 

When  Mr.  Boscorel  had  read  it  slowly  and  twice  over  so  as 
to  lose  no  point  of  the  contents,  he  sat  and  pondered  awhile. 
Then  he  arose,  and  with  troubled  face  he  sought  Sir  Christo- 
pher, to  whom  he  read  it  through.  Then  he  waited  for  Sir 
Christopher  to  speak.  * 

“ The  boy  writes,”  said  his  honor,  after  awhile,  “ according 
to  his  lights.  He  repeats  the  things  he  hears  said  by  his  boon 
companions.  Nay,  more,  he  believes  them.  Why,  it  is  easy 
for  them  to  swear  loyalty  and  to  declare  in  their  cups  where 
the  affections  of  the  people  are  placed.” 

“ Sir  Christopher,  what  is  done  can  not  be  undone.  The 
boys  are  gone — alas! — but  you  still  remain.  Take  heed  for  a 
space  what  you  say  as  well  as  what  you  do.  ” 

“ How  should  they  know  the  temper  of  the  country?”  Sir 
Christopher  went  on  regardless.  “ What  doth  the  foul- 
mouthed  profligate  Sir  George  Jeffreys  know  concerning  sober 
and  godly  people?  These  are  not  noisy  Templars;  they  are 
not  profligates  of  the  court;  they  are  not  haunters  of  tavern 
and  pot-house;  they  are  not  those  who  frequent  the  play- 
house. Judge  Jeffreys  knows  none  such.  They  are  lovers  of 
the  Word  of  God;  they  wish  to  worship  after  their  fashion; 
they  hate  the  Pope  and  all  his  works.  Let  us  hear  what  these 
men  say  upon  the  matter.” 

“Nay,”  said  Mr.  Boscorel;  “ I care  not  greatly  what  they 
say.  But  would  to  God  the  boys  were  safe  returned!” 

“Benjamin  means  well,”  Sir  Christopher  went  on.  “I 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


141 


take  this  warning  kindly;  he  meant  well.  It  pleases  me  that 
in  the  midst  of  the  work  and  the  feasting,  which  he  loves,  he 
thinks  upon  us.  Tell  him,  son-in-law,  that  I thank  him  for 
his  letter.  It  shows  that  he  has  preserved  a good  heart. ” 

“As  for  his  good  heart 99 — Mr.  Boscorel  stroked  his  nose 
with  his  forefinger — “ so  long  as  Benjamin  gets  what  he  wants 
— which  is  Benjamin’s  mess,  and  five  times  the  mess  of  any 
other — there  is  no  doubt  of  his  good  heart.” 

“Worse  things  than  these,”  said  Sir  Christopher,  “were 
said  of  us  when  the  civil  wars  began.  The  king’s  troops  would 
ride  us  down;  the  country  would  not  join  us;  those  of  us  who 
were  not  shot  or  cut  down  in  the  field  would  be  afterward 
hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered.  Yet  we  drove  the  king  from 
his  throne.” 

“ And  the  king  came  back  again.  So  we  go  up  and  so  we 
go  down.  But  about  this  expedition  and  about  these  boys  my 
mind  misgives  me.  ’ ’ 

“ Son-in-law,”  Sir  Christopher  said,  solemnly,  “ I am  now 
old,  and  the  eyes  of  my  mind  are  dim,  so  that  I no  longer 
discern  the  signs  of  the  times,  or  follow  the  current  of  the 
stream;  moreover,  we  hear  but  little  news,  so  that  I can  not 
even  see  any  of  those  signs.  Yet  to  men  in  old  age,  before 
they  pass  away  to  the  rest  provided  by  the  Lord,  there  cometh 
sometimes  a vision  by  which  they  are  enabled  to  see  clearly 
when  younger  men  are  still  groping  their  way  in  a kind  of 
twilight.  Monmouth  hath  landed;  my  boys  are  with  him; 
they  are  rebels;  should  the  rising  fail,  their  lives  are  forfeited; 
and  that  of  my  dear  friend.  Doctor  Comfort  Eykin’s — yea, 
and  my  life  as  well  belike,  because  I have  been  a consenting 
party.  Enin  and  death  will  in  that  event  fall  upon  all  of  us. 
Whether  it  will  so  happen  I know  not,  nor  do  I weigh  the 
chance  of  that  event  against  the  voice  of  conscience,  duty,  and 
honor.  My  boys  have  obeyed  that  voice;  they  have  gone  forth 
to  conquer  or  to  die.  My  vision  doth  not  tell  me  what  will 
happen  to  them.  But  it  shows  me  the  priest  flying  from  the 
country,  the  king  flying  from  the  throne,  and  that  fair  angel 
whom  we  call  Freedom  of  Conscience  returning  to  bless  the 
land.  To  know  that  the  laws  of  God  will  triumjoh — ought  not 
that  to  reconcile  a man,  already  seventy-five  years  of  age,  to 
death,  even  a death  upon  the  gallows?  What  matter  for  this 
earthly  body  so  that  it  be  spent  until  the  end  in  the  service  of 
the  Lord?” 


142 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

WE  WAIT  FOR  THE  END. 

I have  said  that  my  father  from  the  beginning  unto  the 
end  of  this  business  was  as  one  beside  himself,  being  in  an 
ecstasy  or  rapture  of  mind,  insomuch  that  he  heeded  nothing. 
The  letters  he  sent  out  to  his  friends,  the  Non-conformists, 
either  brought  no  answer  or  else  they  heaped  loads  of  trouble, 
being  intercepted  and  read,  upon  those  to  whom  they  were  ad- 
dressed. But  he  was  not  moved.  The  defection  of  his  friends 
and  of  the  gentry  caused  him  no  uneasiness.  Nay,  he  even 
closed  his  eyes  and  ears  to  the  drinking,  the  profane  oaths,  and 
the  riotous  living  in  the  camp.  Others  there  were,  like-mind- 
ed with  himself,  who  saw  the  hand  of  the  Lord  in  this  enter- 
prise, and  thought  that  it  would  succeed  by  a miracle.  The 
desertions  of  the  men,  which  afterward  followed,  and  the  de- 
fection of  those  who  should  have  joined — these  things  were  but 
the  weeding  of  the  host,  which  should  be  still  further  weeded 
— as  in  a well-known  chapter  in  the  Book  of  Judges — until 
none  but  the  righteous  should  be  left  behind.  These  things 
he  preached  daily,  and  with  mighty  fervor>  to  all  who  would 
listen;  but  these  were  few  in  number. 

As  regards  his  wife  and  daughter,  he  took  no  thought  for 
them  at  all,  being  wholly  in  wrapped  in  his  work;  he  did  not 
so  much  as  ask  if  we  had  money — to  be  sure,  for  five-and- 
twenty  years  he  had  never  asked  that  question — or  if  we  were 
safely  bestowed;  or  if  we  were  well.  Never  have  I seen  any 
man  so  careless  of  all  earthly  affections  when,  he  considered  the 
work  of  the  Lord.  But  when  the  time  came  for  the  army  to 
march,  what  were  we  to  do?  Where  should  we  be  bestowed? 

“ As  to  following  the  army,”  said  Robin,  “ that  is  absurd. 
We  know  not  whither  we  may  march  or  what  the  course  of 
events  may  order.  You  can  not  go  home  without  an  armed 
escort,  for  the  country  is  up;  the  clubmen  are  out  everywhere 
to  protect  their  cattle  and  horses,  a rough  and  rude  folk  they 
would  be  to  meet;  and  the  gypsies  are  robbing  and  plunder- 
ing. Can  you  stay  here  until  we  come  back,  or  until  the 
country  hath  settled  down  again?” 

Miss  Blake  generously  promised  that  we  should  stay  with 
her  as  long  as  we  chose,  adding  many  kind  things  about  my- 
self, out  of  friendship  and  a good  heart;  and  so  it  was  resolved 
that  we  should  remain  in  Taunton,  where  no  harm  could  be- 


FOR  FAITH  AKD  FREEDOM.  143 

fall  us,  while  my  father  still  accompanied  the  army  to  exhort 
the  soldiers. 

“ I will  take  care  of  him/*  said  Barnaby.  “ He  shall  not 
preach  of  a morning  till  he  hath  taken  breakfast,  nor  shall  he  go 
to  bed  until  he  hath  had  his  supper.  So  long  as  the  provisions 
last  out  he  shall  have  his  ration.  After  that  I can  not  say.  May 
be  we  shall  all  go  on  short  commons,  as  hath  happened  to  me 
already;  and,  truth  to  tell,  I love  it  not.  All  these  things 
belong  to  the  voyage,  and  are  part  of  our  luck.  Farewell, 
therefore,  mother.  Heart  up! — all  will  go  well!  Kiss  me,  sis- 
ter; we  shall  all  come  back  again.  Never  fear.  King  Mon- 
mouth shall  be  crowned  in  Westminster.  Dad  shall  be  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury,  and  I shall  be  captain  of  a king’s  ship. 
All  our  fortunes  shall  be  made,  and  you,  sister,  shall  have  a 
great  estate,  and  shall  marry  whom  you  please — Robin  or 
another.  As  for  the  gentry  who  have  not  come  forward,  hang 
’em,  we’ll  divide  their  estates  between  us,  and  so  change 
places,  and  they  will  be  so  astonished  at  not  being  shot  for 
cowardice  that  they  will  rejoice  and  be  glad  to  clean  our  boots. 
Thus  shall  we  all  be  happy.  ” 

So  they  marched  away,  Monmouth  being  now  at  the  head  of 
an  army  seven  thousand  strong,  and  all  in  such  spirits  that  you 
would  have  thought  nothing  could  withstand  them.  And  when 
I consider,  and  remember  how  that  army  marched  back,  with 
the  cheers  of  the  men  and  the  laughter  and  jokes  of  the  young 
recruits,  the  tears  ran  down  my  cheeks  for  thinking  how  their 
joy  was  turned  to  mourning,  and  life  was  exchanged  for  death. 
The  last  I saw  of  Robin  was  that  he  was  turning  in  his  saddle, 
to  wave  his  hand,  his  face  full  of  confidence  and  joy.  The 
only  gloomy  face  in  the  whole  army  that  morning  was  the  face 
of  Humphrey.  Afterward  I learned  that  almost  from  the  be- 
ginning he  foresaw  certain  disaster.  In  the  first  place,  none 
of  those  on  whom  the  exiles  of  Holland  had  relied  came  into 
camp.  These  were  the  backbone  of  the  Protestant  party — the 
sturdy  blood  that  had  been  freely  shed  against  Charles  I.  This 
was  a bitter  disappointment.  Next,  he  saw  in  the  army  noth- 
ing but  a rabble  of  country  lads,  with  such  officers  as  Captain 
Hucker,  the  serge-maker,  instead  of  the  country  gentlemen 
with  their  troops,  as  had  been  expected;  and  from  the  begin- 
ning he  distrusted  the  leaders — even  the  duke  himself.  So  he 
hung  his  head  and  laughed  not  with  the  rest.  But  his  doubts 
he  kept  locked  up  in  his  own  heart.  Robin  knew  none  of 
them. 

It  was  a pretty  sight  to  see  the  Taunton  women  walking  out 
for  a mile  or  more  with  their  lovers,  who  had  joined  Mon- 


144 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


mouth.  They  walked  hand  in  hand  with  the  men : they  wore 
the  Monmouth  favors:  they  had  no  more  doubt  or  fear  of  the 
event  than  their  sweethearts.  Those  who  visit  Taunton  now 
may  see  these  women  creeping  about  the  streets,  lonely  and 
sorrowful,  mindful  still  of  that  Sunday  morning  when  they 
saw  their  lovers  for  the  last  time. 

When  I consider  the  history  of  this  expedition  I am  amazed 
that  it  did  not  succeed.  It  was,  surely,  by  a special  judgment 
of  God  that  the  victory  was  withheld  from  Monmouth  and  re- 
served for  William.  I say  not  (presumptuously)  that  the 
judgment  was  pronounced  against  the  duke  on  account  of  his 
sinful  life,  but  I think  it  was  the  will  of  Heaven  that  the  coun- 
try should  endure  for  three  years  the  presence  of  a prince  who 
was  continually  seeking  to  advance  the  Catholic  religion.  The 
people  were  not  yet  ripe,  perhaps,  for  that  universal  disgust 
which  caused  them  without  bloodshed  (in  this  island  at  least) 
to  pull  down  King  James  from  his  throne.  When,  I say,  I 
consider  the  temper  and  the  courage  of  that  great  army  which 
left  Taunton,  greater  than  any  which  the  king  could  bring 
against  it;  when  I consider  the  multitudes  who  flocked  to  the 
standard  at  Bridgewater,  I am  lost  in  wonder  at  the  event. 

From  Sunday,  the  21st,  when  the  army  marched  out  of 
Taunton,  till  the  news  came  of  their  rout  on  Sedgemoor,  we 
heard  nothing  certain  about  them.  On  Tuesday  the  Duke  of 
Albemarle,  hearing  that  the  army  had  gone,  occupied  Taunton 
with  the  militia,  and  there  were  some  who  expected  severities 
on  account  of  the  welcome  given  to  the  duke  and  the  recruits 
whom  he  obtained  here.  But  there  were  no  acts  of  revenge 
that  I heard  of — and,  indeed,  he  did  not  stay  long  in  the  town. 
As  for  us,  we  remained  under  the  shelter  of  Miss  Blake’s  roof, 
and  daily  expected  news  of  some  great  and  signal  victory.  But 
none  came,  save  one  letter.  Every  day  we  looked  for  this 
news,  and  every  day  we  planned  and  laid  down  the  victorious 
march  for  our  army. 

“ They  will  first  occupy  Bristol,”  said  Miss  Blake.  “ That 
is  certain,  because  there  are  many  stout  Protestants  in  Bristol, 
and  the  place  is  important.  Once  master  of  that  great  city, 
our  king  will  get  possession  of  ships,  and  so  will  have  a fleet. 
There  are,  no  doubt,  plenty  of  arms  in  the  town,  with  which 
he  will  be  able  to  equip  an  army  ten  times  greater  than  that 
which  he  now  has.  Then  with,  say,  thirty  thousand  men,  he 
will  march  on  London.  The  militia  will,  of  course,  lay  down 
their  arms  or  desert  at  the  approach  of  this  great  and  resolute 
army.  The  king’s  regiments  will  prove,  I expect,  to  be  Pro- 
testants, every  man.  Oxford  will  open  her  gates,  London  will 


FOR  FAITH  AMD  FREEDOM. 


145 


send  out  her  train-bands  to  welcome  the  deliverer,  and  so  our 
king  will  enter  in  triumph  and  be  crowned  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  one  King  James  succeeding  another.  Then  there  shall 
be  restored  to  this  distracted  country  ” — being  a school-mis- 
tress Miss  Blake  could  use  language  worthy  of  the  dignity  of 
history — “ the  blessings  of  religious  freedom;  and  the  pure 
Word  of  God,  stripped  of  superstitious  additions  made  by 
man,  shall  be  preached  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
land.  ” 

“ What  shall  be  done,”  I asked,  “ with  the  bishops?” 

“ They  shall  be  suffered  to  remain,”  she  said,  speaking  with 
a voice  of  authority,  “ for  those  congregations  which  desire  a 
prelacy,  but  stripped  of  their  titles  and  of  their  vast  revenues. 
We  will  not  persecute,  but  we  will  never  suffer  one  Church  to 
lord  it  over  another.  Oh!  when  will  the  news  come?  Where 
is  the  army  now?” 

The  letter  of  which  I have  spoken  was  from  Bobin. 

“ Sweetheart,”  he  said,  “ all  goes  well  so  far.  At  Bridge- 
water  we  have  received  a welcome  only  second  to  that  of  Taun- 
ton. The  mayor  and  aldermen  proclaimed  our  king  at  the 
High  Cross,  and  the  people  have  sent  to  the  camp  great  store 
of  provisions  and  arms  of  all  kinds.  We  are  now  six  regi- 
ments of  foot  with  a thousand  cavalry,  besides  the  king's  own 
body-guard.  We  have  many  good  friends  at  Bridgewater,  es- 
pecially one,  Mr.  Boger  Hoar,  who  is  a rich  merchant  of  the 
place,  and  is  very  zealous  in  the  cause.  Your  father  preached 
on  Sunday  evening  from  the  text,  Deuteronomy,  vii.  5 : ‘ Ye 
shall  destroy  their  altars,  and  Break  down  their  images,  and 
cut  down  their  groves,  and  burn  their  graven  images  with  fire.' 
It  was  a most  moving  discourse,  which  fired  the  hearts  of  all 
who  heard  it. 

“ They  say  that  our  chief  is  down-hearted  because  the  nobil- 
ity and  gentry  have  not  come  in.  They  only  wait  for  the  first 
victory,  after  which  they  will  come  in  by  hundreds.  But  some 
of  our  men  look  forward  to  depriving  them  of  their  estates  and 
dividing  them  among  themselves;  and  already  the  colonels  and 
majors  are  beginning  to  reckon  up  the  great  rewards  which 
await  them.  As  for  me,  there  is  but  one  reward  for  which  I 
pray,  namely,  to  return  unto  Bradford  Orcas  and  to  the  arms 
of  my  sweet  saint.  Lord  Churchill  is  reported  to  be  at  Chard; 
there  has  been  a brush  in  the  Forest  of  Neroche  between  the 
scouts,  and  it  is  said  that  ail  the  roads  are  guarded  so  that  re- 
cruits shall  be  arrested,  or  at  least  driven  back.  Perhaps  this 
is  the  reason  why  the  gentry  sit  down.  Barnaby  says  that  so 
far  there  have  been  provisions  enough  and  to  spare;  and  ho 


146 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


hopes  the  present  plenty  may  continue.  No  ship’s  crew  can 
fight,  he  says,  on  half  rations.  Our  march  will  be  on  Bristol. 
I hope  and  believe  that  when  we  have  gotten  that  great  town 
our  end  is  sure.  Humphrey  continueth  glum.” 

Many  women  there  were  who  passed  that  time  in  prayer, 
continually  offering  up  supplications  on  behalf  of  husband, 
brother,  lover,  or  son.  But  at  Taunton  the  rector,  one  Walter 
Harte,  a zealous  High  Churchman,  came  forth  from  hiding, 
and,  with  the  magistrates,  said  prayers  daily  for  King  James  II. 

To  tell  what  follows  is  to  renew  a time  of  agony  unspeak- 
able. Yet  must  it  be  told.  Farewell,  happy  days  of  hope  and- 
confidence!  Farewell,  the  sweet  exchange  of  dreams!  Fare- 
well to  our  lovely  hero,  the  gracious  duke!  All  the  troubles 
that  man's  mind  can  conceive  were  permitted  to  be  rained 
upon  our  heads — defeat,  wounds,  death,  prisons — nay,  for  me 
such  a thing  as  no  one  could  have  expected  or  even  feared — 
such  a fate  as  never  entered  the  mind  of  man  to  invent. 

When  the  duke  marched  out  of  Bridgewater,  across  Sedge- 
moor  to  Glastonbury,  the  weather,  which  had  been  hot  and 
fine,  became  cold  and  rainy,  which  made  the  men  uncomfort- 
able. At  Glastonbury  they  camped  in  the  ruins  of  the  old 
abbey.  Thence  they  went  to  Shepton  Mallet,  the  spirits  of  the 
men  still  being  high.  From  Shepton  Mallet  they  marched  to 
a place  called  Pensford,  only  five  miles  from  Bristol.  Here 
they  heard  that  the  bridge  over  the  Avon  at  Keynsham  was 
broken  down.  This  being  presently  repaired,  the  army 
marched  across.  They  were  then  within  easy  reach  of  Bristol. 

And  now  began  the  disastefs  of  the  enterprise.  Up  to  this 
time  everything  had  prospered.  Had  the  duke  boldly  attacked 
Bristol — I speak  not  of  my  own  wisdom,  having  none  in  such 
matters — he  would  have  encountered  no  more  than  twenty 
companies  or  thereabouts  of  militia,  and  a regiment  of  two 
hundred  and  fifty  horse.  Moreover,  Bristol  was  full  of  Dis- 
senters, who  wanted  nothing  but  encouragement  to  join  the 
Protestant  champion.  Not  only  the  duke's  friends,  but  also 
his  enemies,  agree  in  declaring  that  it  wanted  nothing  but 
courage  to  take  that  great,  rich,  and  populous  city,  where  he 
would  have  found  everything  that  he  wanted — men  and  money, 
arms  and  ammunition.  I can  not  but  think  that  for  his  sins, 
or  for  the  sins  of  the  nation,  a judicial  blindness  was  caused  to 
fall  upon  the  duke,  so  that  he  chose,  of  two  ways  open  to  him, 
that  which  led  to  his  destruction.  In  short,  he  turned  away 
from  Bristol,  and  drew  up  his  forces  against  Bath.  When  he 
summoned  that  city  to  surrender,  they  shot  his  herald,  and 
scoffed  at  him.  Then,  instead  of  taking  the  town,  the  duke 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


147 


retired  to  Philip's  Norton,  where,  'tis  said,  he  expected  some 
great  re-enforcements.  Bat  none  came;  and  he  now  grew 
greatly  dejected,  showing  his  dejection  in  his  face,  which  cduld 
conceal  nothing.  Yet  had  he  fought  an  action  with  his  half- 
brother,  the  Duke  of  Grafton,  in  which  he  was  victorious,  a 
thing  which  ought  to  have  helped  him.  In  this  action  Lieu- 
tenant Blake,  Miss  Blake's  cousin,  was  killed.  From  Philip's 
Norton  the  army  marched  to  Frome,  and  here  such  was  the 
general  despondency  that  two  thousand  men — a third  of  the 
whole  army — deserted  in  the  night  and  returned  to  their  own 
homes.  I think,  also,  it  was  at  Frome  that  they  learned  the 
news  of  Lord  Argyll's  discomfiture. 

Then  a council  was  held,  at  which  it  was  proposed  that  the 
army  should  be  disbanded  and  ordered  to  return,  seeing  that 
the  king  had  proclaimed  a pardon  to  all  who  would  peacefully 
lay  down  their  arms  and  return  home;  and  that  the  duke,  with 
Lord  Grey,  and  those  who  would  be  certainly  exempted  from 
that  pardon,  should  make  the  best  of  their  way  out  of  the 
country. 

Alas!  here  was  a way  open  to  the  safety  of  all  those  poor 
men;  but  again  was  the  duke  permitted  to  choose  the  other 
way — that,  namely,  which  led  to  the  destruction  of  his  army 
and  himself.  Yet  they  say  that  he  himself  recommended  the 
safer  course.  He  must  have,  known  that  he  wanted  arms  and 
ammunition;  that  his  men  were  deserting,  and  that  no  more 
recruits  came  in.  Colonel  Venner,  one  of  the  principal  men, 
was  afc  this  juncture  sent  away  to  Holland  in  order  to  get  as- 
sistance in  arms  and  money.  And  the  king's  proclamation  of 
pardon  was  carefully  kept  from  the  knowledge  of  the  soldiers. 

On  July  the  4th  the  army  returned  to  Bridgewater,  and  now 
Dr.  Hooke,  chaplain  to  the  army,  and  some  of  the  officers 
were  sent  away  secretly  in  order  to  raise  an  insurrection  in 
London  and  elsewhere;  the  only  hope  being  that  risings  in 
various  parts  would  call  away  some  of  the  king's  forces  from 
the  west.  Some  of  the  Taunton  men  in  the  army  rode  from 
Bridgewater  to  see  their  friends.  But  we  women  (who,  for 
the  most  part  remained  at  home)  learned  no  news  save  that  as 
yet  there  had  been  no  signal  victory:  we  did  not  hear  of  the 
large  desertions  nor  of  the  duke's  despondency.  Therefore 
we  continued  in  our  fools'  paradise,  and  looked  every  day  for 
some  great  and  crowning  mercy.  Those  who  are  on  the  side 
of  the  Lord  are  always  expecting  some  special  interference; 
whereas  they  ought  to  be  satisfied  with  being  on  the  right  side, 
whether  victory  or  defeat  be  intended  for  them.  In  this  enter- 
prise I doubt  not  that  those  godly  men  (there  were,  indeed. 


148 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


some  godly  men)  who  fell  in  battle,  or  were  afterward  execute 
ed,  received  their  reward,  and  that  a far,  far  greater  reward 
than  their  conduct  deserved— for  who  can  measure  the  short 
agony  of  death  beside  the  everlasting  life  of  glory  unspeak- 
able? 

The  last  day  of  this  fatal  expedition  was  Sunday,  the  fifth 
day  of  July:  so  that  it  took  no  more  than  three  weeks  in  all 
between  its  first  beginning  and  its  failure.  Only  three  weeks! 
But  how  much  longer  was  it  before  the  punishment  and  the 
expiation  were  concluded?  Nay,  are  they  even  yet  concluded 
when  thousands  of  innocent  women  and  children  still  go  in 
poverty  and  mourning  for  the  loss  of  those  who  should  have 
worked  for  them? 

In  the  morning  my  father  preached  to  the  soldiers  on  the 
text  (Joshua,  xxii.  22),  “ The  Lord  God  of  gods,  the  Lord  God 
of  gods.  He  knoweth,  and  Israel  He  shall  know;  if  it  be  in  re- 
bellion, or  if  in  transgression  against  the  Lord,  save  us  not 
this  day.” 

And  now  the  time  was  come  when  the  last  battle  was  to  be 
fought. 

The  Earl  of  Feversham,  who  had  been  at  Somerton,  marched 
this  day  across  Sedgemoor,  and  encamped  at  Weston  Zoyland, 
which  is  but  five  or  six  miles  from  Bridgewater. 

Now  it  chanced  that  one  William  Sparke,  of  Chedzoy,  hear- 
ing of  this  advance,  climbed  the  church  tower,  and  by  aid  of  a 
spying-glass,  such  as  sailors  use  at  sea,  he  discerned  clearly  the 
approach  of  the  army  and  its  halt  at  Weston.  Being  a well- 
wisher  to  the  duke,  he  sent  one  of  his  men.  Bichard  Godfrey 
by  name,  with  orders  to  spy  into  and  learn  the  position  and 
numbers  of  the  earTs  army,  and  to  carry  his  information 
straightway  to  Bridgewater.  This  duty  the  fellow  promised, 
and  most  faithfully  performed. 

The  duke  had  already  learned  the  approach  of  Lord  Fever- 
sham,  and  being  now  well-nigh  desperate  with  his  continued 
losses,  and  seeing  his  army  gradually  wasting  away,  with  no 
fresh  recruits,  he  had  resolved  upon  not  waiting  to  be  attacked, 
but  on  a retreat  northward,  hoping  to  get  across  the  bridge  at 
Keynsham,  and  so  march  into  Shropshire  and  Cheshire,  where 
still  he  hoped  to  raise  another  army.  But  (says  he  who  hath 
helped  me  with  this  brief  account  of  the  expedition)  the  re- 
treat, which  would  have  been  harassed  by  Lord  Feversham ^s 
horse,  would  have  turned  into  flight;  the  men  would  have  de^ 
serted  in  all  directions;  and  when  the  remains  of  the  army  ar- 
rived at  Keynsham  Bridge  they  would  certainly  have  found  it 
occupied  by  the  Duke  of  Beaufort. 


FOR  FAITH  AFTD  FREEDOM. 


149 


The  carriages  were  already  loaded  in  readiness  for  this  march 
(it  was  to  begin  at  nightfall),  when  the  arrival  of  the  man 
Godfrey,  and  the  news  that  he  brought,  caused  the  duke  to 
change  everything.  For  he  now  perceived  that  such  a chance 
was  offered  him  as  had  never  before  occurred  since  his  landing, 
viz. , a night  surprise,  and  if  he  were  fortunate,  the  rout  of  the 
king’s  best  troops. 

It  is  said  that  had  the  duke  shown  the  same  boldness  in  the 
matter  of  Bristol  that  he  showed  in  this  night  attack  he  would 
have  gained  that  city  first  and  his  own  cause  next.  Nor  did 
it  appear  at  all  a desperate  attempt.  For  though  Lord  Fever- 
sham  had  2500  men  with  him,  horse  and  foot,  with  sixteen 
field-pieces,  the  duke  had  nearly  3000  foot  and  600  horse,  with 
four  field-pieces,  and  though  the  king’s  troops  included  many 
companies  of  grenadiers,  with  a battalion  of  that  famous  regi- 
ment the  Coldstream  Guards,  and  some  100  horse  of  the  king’s 
regiment  and  dragoons,  the  duke  had  with  him  at  least  2000 
men  well  armed,  and  resolute,  as  the  event  showed.  Besides 
this,  he  had  the  advantage  of  the  surprise  and  confusion  of  a 
night  attack.  And,  in  addition,  the  camp  was  not  entrenched, 
the  troopers  had  all  gone  to  bed,  the  foot-soldiers  were  drink- 
ing cider,  and  the  officers  were  reported  to  be  all  drunk. 

Therefore  it  was  resolved  that  the  intended  flight  into 
Shropshire  should  be  abandoned,  and  that  the  whole  matter 
should  be  brought  to  an  issue  that  very  night. 

Had  the  attack  succeeded,  all  might  yet  have  gone  well  with 
the  duke.  His  enemies  boasted  that  his  raw  country  lads  would 
be  routed  at  the  first  charge  of  regular  soldiers;  if  he  proved  the 
contrary,  those  who  had  deserted  him  would  have  returned, 
those  who  held  aloof  would  join.  It  was  not  the  cause  which 
found  men  lukewarm;  it  was  the  doubt — and  nothing  but  the 
doubt — whether  the  duke’s  enterprise  would  be  supported. 
And  I have  never  heard  that  any  found  aught  but  commenda- 
tion of  the  boldness  and  spirit  which  brought  us  the  battle  of 
Sedgemoor. 

All  that  day  we  spent  in  quiet  meditation,  in  prayer,  in  the 
reading  of  the  Bible,  and  in  godly  discourses,  and  herein  I must 
commend  the  modesty  as  well  as  the  piety  of  Miss  Susan  Blake, 
in  that  she  invited  my  mother  as  her  elder  and  the  wife  of  an 
eminent  minister  to  conduct  the  religious  exercises,  though  as 
the  hostess  she  might  have  demanded  that  privilege.  We 
stirred  not  abroad  at  all.  The  meeting-houses  which  had  been 
opened  when  the  duke  marched  in  were  now  closed  again. 

In  the  evening,  while  we  sat  together  discoursing  upon  the 
special  mercies  vouchsafed  to  the  people  of  the  Lord,  a strange 


150 


FOB,  FAITH  AHD  FBEEDOM. 


thing  happened.  Nay,  I do  not;  say  that  news  may  not  have 
reached  Taunton  already  of  the  duke’s  intentions,  and  of  the 
position  of  the  king’s  forces.  But  this  seems  incredible,  since 
it  was  not  known — except  to  the  council  by  whom  it  was  de- 
cided— till  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  it  was  not  to  be  thought 
that  these  would  hurry  to  spread  the  news  abroad,  and  so  ruin 
the  whole  affair.  The  window  being  open  then,  we  could  hear 
the  voices  of  those  who  talked  in  the  street  below.  Now  there 
passed  two  men,  and  they  were  talking  as  they  went.  Said 
one — and  these  were  the  words  we  heard: 

“ I tell  thee  that  the  duke  will  have  no  more  to  do  than  to 
lock  the  stable  doors,  and  so  seize  the  troopers  in  their  beds.” 

We  all  started  and  listened.  The  voice  below  repeated: 

“ I say,  sir,  and  I have  it  first  hand,  that  he  hath  but  to 
lock  the  stable  doors,  and  so  seize  all  the  troopers  m their 
beds.  ” . 

Then  they  passed  on  their  way. 

Said  my  mother:  “ My  husband  hath  told  me  that  not  only 
may  the  conscience  be  awakened  |by  a word  which  seemeth 
chance,  but  the  future  may  be  revealed  by  words  which  were 
perhaps  meant  in  another  sense.  What  we  have  heard  this 
evening  may  be  a foretelling  of  victory.  My  children,  let  us 
pray,  and  so  to  bed.” 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  DAY  AFTER. 

It  was  five  o’clock  when  I awoke  next  morning.  Though 
the  hour  was  so  early,  I heard  a great  tramping  and  running 
about  the  streets,  and,  looking  out  of  window,  I saw  a con- 
course of  the  towns-people  gathered  together,  listening  to  one 
who  spoke  to  them.  But  in  the  middle  of  his  speech  they 
broke  away  from  him  and  ran  to  another  speaker,  and  so  dis- 
tractedly, and  with  such  gestures,  that  they  were  clearly  much 
moved  by  some  news  the  nature  of  which  I could  not  guess. 
For  in  some  faces  there  was  visible  the  outward  show  of  tri- 
umph and  joy,  and  on  others  there  lay  plainly  visible  the  look 
of  amazement  or  stupefaction;  and  in  the  street  I saw  some 
women  weeping  and  crying.  What  had  happened?  Oh! 
what  had  happened?  Then,  while  I was  still  dressing,  there 
burst  into  the  room  Susan  Blake,  herself  but  half  dressed,  her 
hair  flying  all  abroad,  the  comb  in  her  hand. 

“ Rejoice!”  she  cried.  “ Oh!  rejoice  and  give  thanks  unto 
the  Lord!  What  did  we  hear  last  night?  That  the  duke  had 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


151 


but  to  shut  the  stable  doors  and  seize  the  troopers  in  their  beds. 
Look  out  of  the  window.  See  the  people  running  and  listen- 
ing eagerly.  Oh!  ’tis  the  crowning  mercy  that  we  have  looked 
for;  the  Lord  hath  blown  and  His  enemies  are  scattered.  Re- 
member the  strange  words  we  heard  last  night.  What  said  the 
unknown  man? — nay,  he  said  it  twice:  6 The  duke  had  but  to 
lock  the  stable  doors/  Nay,  and  yesterday  I saw,  and  the 
last  night  I heard,  The  screech-owl  thrice — which  was  meant 
for  the  ruin  of  our  enemies.  Oh!  Grace,  Grace,  this  is  a joy- 
ful day!” 

“ But  look,”  I said,  “ they  Rave  a downcast  look;  they  run 
about  as  if  distracted,  and  some  are  wringing  their  hands — ” 

“ ’Tis  with  excess  of  joy,”  she  replied,  looking  out  of  the 
window  with  me,  though  her  hair  was  flying  in  the  wind. 
“ They  are  so  surprised  and  so  rejoiced  that  they  can  not  speak 
or  move.  ” 

“ But  there  are  women  weeping  and  wailing : why  do  they 
weep?” 

“ It  is  for  those  who  are  killed.  Needs  must  in  every  great 
victory  that  some  are  killed — poor  brave  fellows! — and  some 
are  wounded.  Nay,  my  dear,  thou  hast  three  at  least  at  the 
camp  who  are  dear  to  thee,  and  God  knows  I have  many.  Let 
us  pray  that  we  do  not  have  to  weep  like  these  poor  women.” 

She  was  so  earnest  in  her  looks  and  words,  and  I myself  so 
willing  to  believe,  that  I doubted  no  longer. 

“ Listen!  oh,  listen!”  she  cried;  “ never,  never  before  have 
bells  rung  a music  so  joyful  to  my  heart.  ” 

For  now  the  bells  of  the  great  tower  of  St.  Mary’s  began  to 
ring.  Clash,  clash,  clash,  all  together,  as  if  they  were  crack- 
ing their  throats  with  joy,  and  at  the  sound  of  the  bells  those 
men  in  the  street  who  seemed  to  me  stupefied  as  by  a heavy 
blow,  put  up  their  hands  to  their  ears  and  fled  as  if  they  could 
not  bear  the  noise,  and  the  women,  who  wept,  wrung  their 
hands,  and  shrieked  aloud  in  anguish,  as  if  the  joy  of  the 
chimes  mocked  the  sorrow  of  their  hearts. 

“ Poor  creatures!”  said  Susan.  “ From  my  heart  I pity 
them.  But  the  victory  is  ours,  and  now  it  only  remains  to 
offer  up  our  humble  prayers  and  praises  to  the  Throne  of  all 
mercy.  ’ ’ 

So  we  knelt  and  thanked  God. 

“ 0 Lord!  we  thank  and  bless  Thee!  0 Lord!  we  thank 
and  bless  Thee!”  cried  Susan,  the  tears  of  joy  and  gratitude 
running  down  her  cheeks. 

Outside,  the  noise  of  hurrying  feet  and  voices  increased,  and 


152 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


more  women  shrieked,  and  still  the  joy-bells  clashed  and 
clanged. 

“O  Lord!  we  thank  Thee!  0 Lord!  we  bless  Thee!” 
Susan  repeated,  on  her  knees,  her  voice  broken  with  her  joy 
and  triumph.  'Twas  all  that  she  could  say. 

1 declare  that  at  that  moment  I had  no  more  doubt  of  the 
victory  than  I had  of  the  sunshine.  There  could  be  no  doubt. 
The  joy-bells  were  ringing;  how  should  we  know  that  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Harte,  the  vicar,  caused  them  to  be  rung  and 
not  our  friends?  There  could  be  no  manner  of  doubt.  The 
people  running  to  and  fro  in  the  street  had  heard  the  news, 
and  were  rushing  to  tell  each  other  and  to  hear  more — the 
women  who  wept  were  mothers  or  wives  of  the  slain.  Again, 
we  had  encouraged  each  other  with  assurances  of  our  success, 
so  that  we  were  already  fully  prepared  to  believe  that  it  had 
come.  Had  we  not  seen  a splendid  army,  some  thousand 
strong,  march  out  of  Taunton  town,  led  by  the  bravest  man 
and  most  accomplished  soldier  in  the  English  nation?  Was 
not  the  army  on  the  Lord's  side?  Were  we  not  in  a Protestant 
country?  Were  not  the  very  regiments  of  the  king  Prot- 
estants? Why  go  on?  And  yet — oh!  sad  to  think! — while 
we  knelt  and  prayed  the  army  was  scattered  like  a cloud  of 
summer  gnats  by  a shower  and  a breeze,  and  hundreds  lay 
dead  upon  the  field,  and  a thousand  men  were  prisoners,  and 
many  were  already  hanging  in  gemmances  upon  the  gibbets, 
where  they  remained  till  King  William's  coming  suffered 
them  to  be  taken  down;  and  the  rest  were  flying  in  every 
direction  hoping  to  escape. 

“ 0 Lord!  we  thank  Thee^  0 Lord!  we  bless  Thee!” 

While  thus  we  prayed  we  heard  the  door  below  burst  open, 
and  a tramping  of  a man's  boots;  and  Susan,  hastily  rolling 
up  her  hair,  ran  down-stairs  followed  by  mother  and  myself. 

There  stood  Barnaby.  Thank  God!  one  of  our  lads  was 
safe  out  of  the  fight.  His  face  and  hands  were  black  with 
powder;  his  red  coat,  which  had  been  so  fine,  was  now  smirched 
with  mud  and  stained  with  I know  not  what — marks  of  weather, 
of  mud  and  of  gunpowder;  the  right-hand  side  was  torn  away; 
he  had  no  hat  upon  his  head,  and  a bloody  clout  was  tied  about 
his  forehead. 

“ Barnaby!”  I cried. 

“ Captain  Barnaby!”  cried  Susan,  clasping  her  hands. 

“ My  son!”  cried  mother.  “Oh!  thou  art  wounded! 
Quick,  Grace,  child — a basin  of  water,  quick!” 

“ Nay,  'tis  but  a scratch,”  he  said,  “ and  there  is  no  time 
for  nursing.  ” 


POE  PAITH  AND  EKEEDOM. 


153 


“ When,  where,  how,”  we  all  cried  together,  “ was  the  vic- 
tory won?  Is  the  enemy  cut  to  pieces?  Is  the  war  finished?” 

6 4 Victory?”  he  repeated,  in  his  slow  way — “ what  victory? 
Give  me  a drink  of  cider,  and  if  there  is  a morsel  of  victual  in 
the  house — ” 

I hurried  to  bring  him  both  cold  meat  and  bread  and  a cup- 
ful of  cider.  He  began  to  eat  and  drink. 

“Why,”  he  said,  talking  between  his  mouthfuls,  “if  the 
worst  comes,  it  is  better  to  face  it  with  a — Your  health, 
madame;”  he  finished  the  cider.  “ Another  cup,  sister,  if 
you  love  me;  I have  neither  eaten  nor  drunk  since  yesterday 
at  seven  oYlock  or  thereabout.  ” He  said  no  more  until  he 
had  cleared  the  dish  of  the  gammon  and  left  nothing  but  the 
bone.  This  he  dropped  into  his  pocket.  “When  the  pro- 
visions are  out,”  he  said,  wisely,  “ there  is  good  gnawing  in  the 
shank-bone  of  a ham.  ” Then  he  drank  up  the  rest  of  the 
cider  and  looked  around.  “ Victory!  Did  some  one  speak  of 
victory?” 

“Yes;  where  was  it?  Tell  us  quick.  ” 

“ Well,  there  was  in  some  sort  a victory.  But  the  king  had 
it.” 

“ What  mean  you,  Barnaby?  The  king  had  it?  What 
king?” 

“ Not  King  Monmouth.  That  king  is  riding  away  to  find 
some  port  and  get  some  ship,  I take  it,  which  will  carry  him 

EqoIt  f a TT  r*l  1 q ti  rl  ^ 

“ Barnaby,  what  is  it?  Oh,  what  is  it?  Tell  us  all.” 

“ All  there  is  to  tell,  sister,  is  that  our  army  is  clean  cut  to 
pieces,  and  that  those  of  us  who  are  not  killed  or  prisoners  are 
making  off  with  what  speed  they  may.  As  for  me,  I should 
have  thrown  away  my  coat  and  picked  up  some  old  duds  and 
got  off  to  Bristol,  and  so  aboard  ship  and  away,  but  for  dad.  ” 

“ Oh,  Barnaby/'  cried  my  mother,  “ what  hath  happened 
to  him?  Where  is  he?” 

“ I said,  mother,”  he  replied,  very  slowly,  and  looking  in 
her  face  strangely,  “ that  I would  look  after  him,  didn't  I? 
Well,  when  we  marched  out  of  Bridgewater  at  nightfall  noth- 
ing would  serve  but  he  must  go  too.  I think  he  compared 
himself  with  Moses,  who  stood  afar  off  and  held  up  his  arms. 
Never  was  there  any  man  more  eager  to  get  at  the  enemy  than 
dad.  If  he  had  not  been  a minister  now,  what  a soldier  he 
would  have  made!” 

“ Go  on — quick,  Barnaby.” 

“I  can  go,  sister,  no  quicker  than  I can.  That  is  quite 

sure.  ” 


154 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


“ Where  is  he,  my  son?”  asked  my  mother. 

Barnaby  jerked  his  thumb  over  his  left  shoulder. 

“ He  is  over  there,  and  he  is  safe  enough  for  the  present. 
Well,  after  the  battle  was  over,  and  it  was  no  use  going  on  any 
longer,  Monmouth  and  Lord  Grey  having  already  run  away — ” 

“ Bun  away?  Run  away?” 

“ Run  away,  sister.  Aboard  ship  the  captain  stands’ by  the 
crew  to  the  last,  and  if  they  strike,  he  is  prisoner  with  them. 
Ashore,  the  general  runs  away  and  leaves  his  men  to  find  out 
when  they  will  give  over  fighting.  We  fought  until  there  waSi 
no  more  ammunition,  and  then  we  ran  with  the  rest.  Now  I 
had  not  gone  far  before  I saw  lying  on  the  moor  at  my  very 
feet  the  poor  old  dad.” 

“ Oh!” 

“ He  was  quite  pale,  and  I thought  he  was  dead.  So  I was 
about  to  leave  him,  when  he  opened  his  eyes.  6 What  cheer, 
dad?*  I asked.  He  said  nothing;  so  I felt  his  pulse  and  found 
him  breathing.  ‘ But  what  cheer,  dad?*  I asked  him  again. 

‘ Get  up  if  thou  canst,  and  come  with  me.  * He  looked  as  if 
he  understood  me  not,  and  he  shut  his  eyes  again.  Now  when 
you  run  away,  the  best  thing  is  to  run  as  fast  and  to  run  as  far 
as  you  can.  Yet  I could  not  run  with  dad  lying  in  the  road 
half  dead.  So  while  I tried  to  think  what  to  do,  because  the 
murdering  dragoons  were  cutting  us  down  in  all  directions, 
there  came  galloping  past  a pony  harnessed  to  a kind  of  go- 
cart,  where,  I suppose,  there  had  been  a barrel  or  two  of  cider 
for  the  soldiers.  The  creature  was  mad  with  the  noise  of  the 
guns,  and  I had  much  ado  to  catch  him,  and  hold  the  reins 
while  I lifted  dad  into  the  cart.  When  I had  done  that,  1 ran 
by  the  side  of  the  horse  and  drove  him  off  the  road,  across  the 
moor,  which  was  rough  going,  but  for  dear  life  one  must  en- 
dure much,  to  North  Marton,  where  I struck  the  road  to 
Taunton,  and  brought  him  safe,  so  far.** 

“ Take  me  to  him,  Barnaby,**  said  my  mother — “ take  me 
to  him.  ** 

“ Why,  mother,**  he  said,  kindly,  “ I know  not  if  *tis  wise. 
For,  look  you,  if  they  catch  us,  me  they  will  hang  or  shoot, 
though  dad  they  may  let  go,  for  he  is  sped  already;  and  for  a 
tender  heart  like  thine  *twould  be  a piteous  sight  to  see  thy 
son  hanging  from  a branch  with  a tight  rope  round  his  neck 
and  thy  husband  dead  on  a hand-cart.** 

“ Barnaby,  take  me  to  him! — take  me  to  him!’* 

“ Oh!  Is  it  true?  Is  it  true?  Oh!  Captain  Barnaby,  is  it 
really  true?  Then  why  are  the  bells  a-ringing?” 

Clash!  Clash!  Clash!  The  bells  rung  out  louder  and 


FOE  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


155 


louder.  One  would  have  thought  the  whole  town  was  rejoic- 
ing. Yet  there  were  a thousand  lads  marched  out  of  Taunton 
town,  and  I knew  not  how  many  ever  came  home  again. 

“ They  are  ringing,”  said  Barnaby,  “because  King  Mon- 
mouth's army  is  scattered,  and  the  rebellion  is  over.  Well, 
we  have  had  our  chance,  and  we  are  dished.  Now  must  we 
sing  small  again.  Madame/'  he  said,  earnestly,  addressing 
Susan,  “ if  1 remember  right,  they  were  your  hands  that  car- 
ried the  naked  sword  and  the  Bible?” 

“ They  were  my  hands.” 

“ And  they  were  your  scholars  who  worked  the  flags  and 
gave  them  to  the  duke  that  day  when  you  walked  in  a proces- 
sion?” 

“ They  were  my  scholars,”  she  said,  proudly. 

“ Then,  madame,  seeing  that  we  have,  if  all  reports  be  true, 
a damned  unforgiving  kind  of  king,  my  advice  to  you  is  to 
follow  my  example  and  run.  Hoist  all  sail,  madame,  and  fly  to 
some  port — any  port.  Fly  false  colors.  When  hanging,  flog- 
ging, branding,  and  the  like  amusements  set  in,  I think  they 
will  remember  the  maids  of  Taunton.  That  is  my  advice, 
madame.  ” 

“Sir,”  said  Susan,  bravely,  though  her  cheek  grew  pale 
when  he  spoke  of  floggings  and  brandings,  “I  thank  you. 
Whither  should  I fly?  Needs  must  I stay  here  and  bear  what- 
ever affliction  the  Lord  may  lay  upon  me.  And  since  our 
Protestant  hero  is  defeated,  methinks  it  matters  little  what  be- 
comes of  any  of  us.  ” 

“ Why  ” (Barnaby  shook  his  head),  “ King  Monmouth  is  de- 
feated, that  is  most  true;  but  we  who  survive  have  got  our- 
selves to  look  after.  Sister,  get  a basket  and  put  into  it  pro- 
visions.” 

“ What  will  you  have,  Barnaby?” 

“ Everything  that  you  can  carry.  Cold  bacon  for  choice, 
and  bread,  and  a bottle  of  brandy  if  you  have  any,  and — all 
you  can  lay  hands  upon.  With  your  good  leave,  madame.  ” 

“ Oh,  sir,  take  all — take  all.  I would  to  God  that  every- 
thing I have  in  the  world  could  be  used  for  the  succor  of  these 
my  friends!”  And  with  that  she  began  to  weep  and  cry. 

I filled  a great  basket  with  all  that  there  was  in  the  house, 
and  he  took  it  upon  his  arm.  And  then  we  came  away  with 
many  tears  and  fond  farewells  from  this  kind  soul  who  had 
done  so  much  for  the  cause,  and  was  now  about  to  pay  so  heavy 
a penalty  for  her  zeal. 

Outside  in  the  street  the  people  recognized  him  for  one  of 


156 


FOR  FAITH  A HD  FREEDOM. 


Monmouth’s  captains,  and  pressed  round  him  and  asked  him 
a thousand  questions,  but  he  answered  shortly. 

“ We  were  drubbed,  I tell  you.  King  Monmouth  hath  run 
away.  We  have  all  run  away.  How  should  I know  how  many 
are  killed?  Every  man  who  doth  not  wish  to  be  hanged  had 
best  run  away  and  hide.  The  game  is  up — friend,  we  are  sped. 
What  more  can  I say?  How  do  I know,  in  the  devil’s  name, 
whose  fault  it  was?  How  can  I tell,  madame,  if  your  son  is 
safe?  If  he  is  safe,  make  him  creep  into  a hiding-place  ” — 
and  so  on  to  a hundred  who  crowded  after  him  and  questioned 
him  as  to  the  nature  and  meaning  of  the  defeat.  Seeing  that 
no  more  news  could  be  got  from  him,  the  people  left  off  fol- 
lowing us,  and  we  got  out  of  the  town  on  the  east  side,  where 
the  road  leads  to  Ilminster;  but  it  is  a bad  road  and  little 
frequented. 

Here  Barnaby  looked  about  him  carefully  to  make  sure  that 
no  one  was  observing  us,  and  then,  finding  that  no  one  was 
within  sight,  he  turned  to  the  right,  down  a grassy  lane  be- 
tween hedges. 

“ ’Tis  this  way  that  I brought  him,”  he  said.  “ Poor  old 
man!  he  can  now  move  neither  hand  nor  foot;  and  his  legs 
will  no'  more  be  any  use  to  him.  Yet  he  seemed  in  no  pain, 
though  the  jolting  of  the  cart  must  have  shaken  him  more 
than  a bit.  ” 

The  lane  led  into  a field,  and  that  field  into  another  and  a 
smaller  one,  with  a plantation  of  larches  on  two  sides  and  a 
brook  shaded  with  alders  on  a third  side.  In  one  corner  was  a 
linney,  with  a thatched  roof  supported  on  wooden  pillars  in 
front  and  closed  in  at  back  and  sides.  It  was  such  a meadow 
as  is  used  for  the  pasture  of  cattle  and  the  keeping  of  a bull. 

At  the  entrance  of  this  meadow  Barnaby  stopped  out  and 
looked  about  him  with  approbation. 

“Here,”  he  said,  slowly,  “ is  a hiding-place  fit  for  King 
Monmouth  himself.  A road  unfrequented;  the  rustics  all  gone 
off  to  the  wars — though  now,  I doubt  not,  having  had  their 
bellyful  of  fighting.  I suppose  there  were  once  cattle  in  the 
meadow,  but  they  are  either  driven  away  by  the  club-men  for 
safety,  or  they  have  been  stolen  by  the  gypsies.  No  troopers 
will  this  day  come  prying  along  this  road,  or  if  they  do  search 
the  wood,  which  is  unlikely,  they  will  not  look  in  the  linney; 
here  can  we  be  snug  until  we  make  up  our  minds  what  course 
is  best.  ” 

“Barnaby,”  I said,  “take  us  to  my  father  without  more 
speech.  ’ ’ 

“ I have  laid  him,”  he  went  on,  “ upon  the  bare  ground  in 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


157 


the  linney;  but  it  is  soft  and  dry  lying,  and  the  air  is  warm, 
though  last  night  it  rained  and  was  cold.  He  looks  happy, 
mother,  and  I doubt  if  he  hath  any  feeling  left  in  his  limbs. 
Once  I saw  a man  shot  in  the  backbone,  and  never  move 
afterward;  but  he  lived  for  a bit.  Here  he  is.” 

Alas!  lying  motionless  on  his  back,  his  head  bare,  his  white 
hair  lying  over  his  face,  his  eyes  closed,  his  cheek  white,  and 
no  sign  of  life  in  him  except  that  his  breast  gently  heaved,  was 
my  father.  Then  certain  words  which  he  had  uttered  came 
back  to  my  memory.  “ What  matters  the  end,”  he  said,  “ if 
I have  freedom  of  speech  for  a single  day?” 

My  mother  threw  herself  on  her  knees  beside  him  and  raised 
his  head. 

“ Ah!  my  heart,”  she  cried,  “ my  dear  heart,  my  husband, 
have  they  killed  thee?  Speak,  my  dear — speak,  if  thou  canst! 
Art  thou  in  pain?  Can  we  do  aught  to  relieve  thee?  Oh,  is 
this  the  end  of  all?” 

But  my  father  made  no  reply.  He  opened  his  eyes,  but  they 
did  not  move;  he  looked  straight  before  him,  but  he  saw  noth- 
ing. Then  he  murmured,  in  a low  voice:  “ Lord,  now  let 
Thy  servant  depart  in  peace.  So  let  all  Thine  enemies  perish. 

Lord.” 

And  this,  until  the  end,  was  the  burden  of  all.  He  spoke 
no  word  to  show  that  he  knew  any  one,  or  that  he  was  in  pain, 
or  that  he  desired  anything.  He  neither  ate  nor  drank,  yet 
for  many  weeks  longer  he  continued  to  live. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Thus  we  began  our  miserable  flight.  Thus,  in  silence,  we 
sat  in  the  shade  of  the  linney  all  the  morning.  Outside,  the 
blackbird  warbled  in  the  wood  and  the  lark  sung  in  the  sky. 
But  we  sat  in  silence,  not  daring  so  much  as  to  ask  each  other 
if  those  things  were  real,  or  if  we  were  dreaming  a dreadful 
dream.  Still  and  motionless  lay  my  father’s  body,  as  if  the 
body  of  a dead  man.  He  felt  no  pain — of  that  I am  assured; 
it  makes  me  sick  even  to  think  that  he  might  have  suffered 
pain  from  his  wound;  he  had  no  sense  at  all  of  what  was  going 
on.  Yet  once  or  twice  during  the  long  trance  or  paralysis  in 
which  he  had  fallen  he  opened  his  lips  and  spoke  after  his  old 
manner  in  the  words  of  the  Bible,  but  in  a disjointed  manner, 
as  one  who  is  in  a dream  or  delirium.  And  he  breathed  gent- 
ly— so  that  he  was  not  dead.  IJarnaby,  for  his  part,  threw 
himself  upon  his  face,  and  laying  his  head  upon  his  arm,  fell 
asleep  instantly.  The  place  was  very  quiet;  at  the  end  of  the 


158 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM, 


meadow  was  a brook,  and  there  was  a wood  upon  the  other 
side;  we  could  hear  the  prattling  of  the  water  over  the  pebbles; 
outside  the  linney  a great  elm-tree  stretched  out  its  branches; 
presently  I saw  a squirrel  sitting  upon  one  and  peering  curi- 
ously at  us,  not  at  all  afraid,  so  still  and  motionless  we  were. 
I remember  that  1 envied  the  squirrel.  He  took  no  thought 
even  for  his  daily  bread.  And  the  hedge-sparrows,  no  more 
afraid  than  if  the  linney  was  empty,  hopped  into  the  place  and 
began  picking  about  among  the  straw.  And  so  the  hours  slow- 
ly passed  away,  and  by  degrees  I began  to  understand  a little 
better  what  had  happened  to  us,  for  at  the  first  shock  one 
could  not  perceive  the  extent  of  the  disaster,  and  we  were  as 
in  a dream  when  we  followed  Barnaby  out  of  the  town.  The 
great  and  splendid  army  was  destroyed;  that  gallant  hero,  the 
duke,  was  in  flight;  those  of  the  soldiers  who  were  not  killed 
or  taken  prisoners  were  running  hither  and  thither  trying  to 
escape;  my  father  was  wounded,  stricken  to  death,  as  it 
seemed,  and  deprived  of  power  to  move,  to  feel,  or  to  think. 
While  I considered  this  I suddenly  remembered  how  he  had 
turned  his  eyes  from  gazing  into  the  sky,  and  asked  me  what 
it  mattered  even  if  the  end  would  be  death  to  him  and  ruin 
unto  all  of  us.  And  I do  firmly  believe  that  at  that  moment 
he  had  an  actual  vision  of  the  end,  and  really  saw  before  his 
eyes  the  very  things  that  were  to  come  to  pass,  and  that  he 
knew  all  along  what  the  end  would  be.  Yet  he  bad  delivered 
his  soul — why,  then,  he  had  obtained  his  prayer — and  by  daily 
exhortation  had  doubtless  done  much  to  keep  up  the  spirit  of 
those  in  the  army  who  were  sober  and  godly  men.  Did  he 
also,  like  Sir  Christopher,  have  another  vision  which  should 
console  and  encourage  him?  Did  he  see  the  time  to  follow 
when  a greater  than  the  duke  should  come  and  bring  with  him 
the  deliverance  of  the  country?  There  are  certain  gracious 
words  with  which  that  vision  closes  which  he  loved  to  read  and 
to  expound — the  vision,  I mean,  of  the  Basket  of  Summer 
Fruit.  Did  those  words  ring  in  his  mind  and  comfort  him 
even  in  the  prospect  of  his  own  end?  Then  my  thoughts, 
which  were  swift  and  yet  beyond  my  control,  left  him  and 
considered  the  case  of  Barnaby.  He  had  been  a captain  in  the 
Green  Regiment;  he  would  be  hanged,  for  certain,  if  he  were 
caught.  My  sweetheart,  my  Robin,  had  also  been  a captain 
in  the  duke’s  army.  All  the  duke’s  officers  would  be  hanged 
if  they  were  caught.  But  perhaps  Robin  was  already  dead — 
dead  on  the  battle-field — his  face  white,  his  hands  stiff,  blood 
upon  him  somewhere,  and  a cruel  wound  upon  his  dear  body! 
Oh,  Robin!  Yet  I shed  no  tears.  Humphrey,  who  had  been 


FOB  FAITH  AHD  FBEEDOM. 


159 


one  of  the  dukeT  chirurgeons,  he  would  also  be  surely  hanged 
if  he  were  caught.  Why — since  all  would  be  hanged — why 
not  hang  mother  and  me  as  well,  and  so  an  end? 

About  noon  Barnaby  began  to  stir;  then  he  grunted  and 
went  to  sleep  again:  presently  he  moved  once  more;  then  he 
rolled  over  on  his  broad  back  and  went  to  sleep  again.  It  was 
not  until  the  sun  was  quite  low  that  he  awoke,  sitting  up  sud- 
denly, and  looking  about  him  with  quick  suspicion,  as  one  who 
hath  been  sleeping  in  the  country  of  an  enemy,  or  where  wild 
beasts  are  found. 

Then  he  sprung  to  his  feet  and  shook  himself  like  a dog. 

44  Sister,”  he  said,  44  thou  shouldst  have  awakened  me  earlier. 
I have  slept  all  the  day.  Well;  we  are  safe,  so  far.”  Here 
he  looked  cautiously  out  of  the  linney  toward  the  wood  and  the 
road.  44  So  far,  I say,  we  are  safe.  I take  it  we  had  best  not 
wait  until  to-morrow,  but  budge  to-night;  for  not  only  will  the 
troopers  scour  the  country,  but  they  will  offer  rewards,  and  the 
gypsies — ay,  and  even  the  country  folk — will  hasten  to  give  in- 
formation out  of  their  greedy  hearts.  We  must  budge  this 
very  night.” 

46  Whither  shall  we  go,  Barnaby?” 

He  went  on  as  if  he  had  not  heard  my  question. 

44  We  shall  certainly  be  safe  here  for  to-night;  but  for  to- 
morrow I doubt.  Best  not  run  the  chance;  for  to-day  their 
hands  are  full;  they  will  be  hanging  the  prisoners.  Some  they 
will  hang  first  and  try  afterward;  some  they  will  try  first  and 
hang  afterward.  ’ What  odds,  if  they  are  to  be  hanged  in  the 
end?  The  cider  orchards  never  had  such  fruit  as  they  will 
show  this  autumn,  if  the  king  prove  revengeful — as,  to  judge 
by  his  sour  face,  he  will  be.” 

Here  he  cursed  the  king,  his  sour  face,  his  works  and  ways, 
his  past,  his  present,  and  his  future,  in  round  language  which 
I hope  his  wounded  father  did  not  hear. 

44  We  must  lie  snug  for  a month  or  two  somewhere,  until 
the  unlucky  Monmouth  men  will  be  suffered  to  return  home 
in  peace.  Ay!  Twill  be  a month  and  more,  I take  it,  before 
the  country  will  be  left  quiet.  A month  and  more — and  dad 
not  able  to  crawl!” 

44  Where  shall  we  be  snug,  Barnaby?” 

44  That,  sister,  is  what  I am  trying  to  find  out.  How  to  lie 
snug  with  a couple  of  women  and  a wounded  man  who  can  not 
move?  ^Twas  madness  of  the  poor  old  dad  to  bring  thee  to 
the  camp,  child.  For  now  we  can  not — any  of  us — part  com- 
pany, and  if  we  stay  together.  Twill  maybe  bring  our  necks  to 
the  halter.  ” 


160 


FOR  FAITH  AMD  FREEDOM. 


“ Leave  us,  Barnaby,”  I said — “ oh,  leave  us  to  do  what  we 
can  for  the  poor  sufferer,  and  save  thyself. 99 

“ Ta,  ta,  ta,  sister — knowest  not  what  thou  sayest.  Let  me 
consider.  There,  may  be  some  way  of  safety.  As  for  pro- 
visions now:  we  have  the  basket  full — enough  for  two  days, 
say.  What  the  plague  did  dad,  the  poor  old  man,  want  with 
women  when  the  fighting  was  on  hand?  When  the  fighting  is 
done,  I grant  you,  women,  with  the  tobacco  and  punch,  are 
much  in  place.  There  are  some  pretty  songs,  now,  that  I 
have  heard  about  women  and  drink. 99 

“ Barnaby,  is  this  a time  to  be  talking  of  such  things  as 
drink  and  singing?” 

“ All  times  are  good.  Nevertheless,  all  company  is  not 
fitting;  wherefore,  sister,  I say  no  more. 99 

“ Barnaby,  knowest  thou  aught  of  Robin?  Or  of  Hum- 
phrey?” 

“ I know  nothing.  They  may  be  dead ; they  may  be  wound- 
ed and  prisoners.  Much  I fear,  knowing  the  spirit  of  the  lads, 
that  both  are  killed.  Nay,  I saw  Humphrey  before  the  fight, 
and  he  spoke  to  me — 99 

What  did  Humphrey  say?” 

“ I asked  why  he  hung  his  head  and  looked  so  glum,  seeing 
that  we  were  at  last  going  forth  to  meet  the  king's  army. 
This  I said  because  I knew  Humphrey  to  be  a lad  of  mettle, 
though  his  arm  is  thin  and  his  body  is  crooked.  ‘ I go  heavy,. 
Barnaby/  he  said,  speaking  low  lest  others  should  hear,  c be- 
cause I see  plainly  that,  unless  some  signal  success  come  to  us, 
this  our  business  will  end  badly.'  Then  he  began  to  talk 
about  the  thousands  who  were  to  have  been  raised  all  over  the 
country;  how  he  himself  had  brought  to  the  duke  promises  of 
support  gathered  all  the  way  from  London  to  Bradford  Orcas, 
and  how  his  friends  in  Holland  even  promised  both  men  and 
arms;  but  none  of  these  promises  had  been  kept;  how  dad  had 
brought  promises  of  support  from  all  the  Non -conformists  of 
the  West,  but  hardly  any,  save  at  Taunton,  had  come  forward; 
and  how  the  army  was  melting  away,  and  no  more  recruits 
coming  in.  And  then  he  said  that  he  had  been  the  means  of 
bringing  so  many  to  the  duke  that,  if  they  died,  their  deaths 
would  be  upon  his  conscience.  And  he  spoke  lovingly  of  Robin 
and  of  thee,  sister.  And  so  we  parted,  and  I saw  him  no 
more.  As  for  what  he  said  about  success,  I minded  it  not  a 
straw.  Many  a croaker  turns  out  in  the  long  run  to  be  brave 
in  the  fight.  Doubtless  he  is  dead,  and  Robin,  too.  Both  are 
dead.  I take  it,  sister,  thou  hast  lost  thy  sweetheart.  Cry  a 


FO  To  FAITH  AKD  FREEDOM. 


161 

6 

little,,  my  dear,”  he  added,  kindly;  44  ' twill  ease  the  pain  at 
thy  heart.  'Tis  natural  for  a woman  to  cry.” 

46 1 can  not  cry,  Barnaby;  I wish  I could.  The  tears  rise 
to  my  eyes,  but  my  throat  is  dry.” 

44  Try  a prayer  or  two,  sister.  'Twas  wont  to  comfort  the 
heart  of  my  mother  when  she  was  in  trouble.” 

44  A prayer?  Brother,  I have  done  nothing  but  pray  since 
this  unfortunate  rebellion  began.  A prayer?  Oh,  I can  not 
pray!  If  I were  to  pray  now  it  would  be  as  if  my  words  were 
echoed  back  from  a wall  of  solid  rock.  We  were  praying  all 
yesterday;  we  made  the  Sabbath  into  a day  of  prayer  without 
ceasing;  and  the  morning,  when  you  opened  the  door,  we  were 
praising  and  thanking  God  for  the  mercy  of  the  great  victory 
bestowed  upon  us.  And  at  that  time  the  poor  brave  men — ” 

44  They  were  brave  enough  to  the  end,”  said  Barnaby. 

44  The,  poor  brave  men  lying  cold  and  dead  upon  the  field 
(among  them  may  be  Bobin),  and  the  prisoners  huddled  to- 
gether somewhere,  and  men  hanging  already  upon  the  gibbets. 
We  were  praising  God — and  my  father  lying  on  the  ground 
stricken  to  death,  and  thou  a fugitive,  and  all  of  us  ruined! 
Prayer?  How  could  I pray  from  such  a pit  of  woe?” 

44  Child,”  my  mother  lifted  her  pale  face,  44  in  the  darkest 
hour  pray  without  ceasing.  Even  if  there  happen  even  a 
darker  hour  than  this,  4 in  everything  by  prayer  and  supplica- 
tion with  thanksgiving* let  your  requests  be  made  known- ' — with 
thanksgiving,  my  daughter.  ” 

Alas!  I could  not  obey  the  apostolic  order.  'Twas  too  much 
for  me.  So  we  fell  into  silence.  When  the  sun  had  quite 
gone  down,  Barnaby  went  forth  cautiously.  Presently  he 
came  back. 

44  There  is  no  one  on  the  road,”  he  said.  44  We  may  now 
go  on  our  way.  The  air  of  Taunton  is  dangerous  to  us.  It 
breeds  swift  and  fatal  diseases.  I have  now  resolved  what  to 
do.  I will  lift  my  father  upon  the  cart  again  and  put  in  the 
pony.  Four  or  five  miles  sou'-west  or  thereabouts  is  Black 
Down,  which  is  a No-Man's  Land.  Thither  will  we  go  and 
hide  in  the  coombs,  where  no  one  ever  comes,  except  the 
gypsies.” 

44  How  shall  we  live,  Barnaby?” 

44  That,”  he  said,  44  we  shall  find  out  when  we  come  to  look 
about  us.  There  is  provision  for  two  days.  The  nights  are 
warm.  We  shall  find  cover,  or  make  it  with  branches.  There 
is  water  in  the  brooks  and  dry  wood  to  burn.  There  we  may, 
perhaps,  be  safe.  When  the  country  is  quiet  we  will  make  our 
way  across  the  hills  to  Bradford  Orcas,  where  no  one  will 


162 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


molest  you,  and  I can  go  off  to  Bristol  or  Lyme,  or  wherever 
there  are  ships  to  be  found.  When  sailors  are  shipwrecked, 
sister,  they  do  not  begin  by  asking  what  they  shall  do  on  dry 
land;  they  ask  only  to  feel  the  stones  beneath  their  feet.  We 
must  think  of  nothing  now  but  of  a place  of  safety.” 

“ Barnaby,  are  the  open  hills  a proper  place  for  ^wounded 
man?” 

“ Why,  child,  for  a choice  between  the  hills  and  what  else 
may  happen  if  we  stay  here,  give  me  the  hills,  even  for  a 
wounded  man.  But  indeed  ”— he  whispered,  so  that  my 
mother  should  not  hear  him — “ he  will  die.  Death  is  written 
on  his  face.  I know  not  how  long  he  will  live.  But  he  must 
die.  Never  did  any  man  recover  from  such  evil  plight.” 

He  harnessed  the  pony  to  the  cart,  which  was  little  more 
than  a couple  of  planks  laid  side  by  side,  just  as  he  had  brought 
him  from  Taunton.  My  mother  made  a kind  of  pillow  for 
him  with  grass  tied  up  in  her  kerchief,  and  so  we  hoped  that 
he  would  not  feel  the  jogging  of  the  cart. 

“ The  stream,”  said  Barnaby,  “ comes  down  from  the  hills. 
Let  us  follow  its  course  upward.  ” 

It  was  a broad  stream  with  a shallow  bed,  for  the  most  part 
flat  and  pebbly;  and  on  either  side  of  the  stream  lay  a strip  of 
soft  turf,  broad  enough  for  the  cart  to  run  upon.  So  that,  as 
long  as  that  lasted,  we  had  very  easy  going;  my  mother  and  I 
walking  one  on  each  side,  so  as  to  steady  the  pillow  and  keep 
the  poor  head  upon  it  from  pain.  But  whether  we  went  easy 
or  whether  we  went  rough,  that  head  made  no  sign  of  feeling 
aught,  and  lay,  just  as  in  the  linney,  as  if  dead.  Once  it  had 
spoken;  now  it  was  silent  again. 

1 can  not  tell  how  long  we  went  on  beside  that  stream. 
^Twas  in  a wild,  uncultivated  country;  the  ground  ascended; 
the  stream  became  narrower  and  swifter;  presently  the  friend- 
ly strip  of  turf  failed  altogether,  and  then  we  had  trouble  to 
keep  the  cart  from  upsetting.  I went  to  the  j)ony*s  head, 
and  Barnaby,  going  behind  the  cart,  lifted  it  over  the  rough 
jflaces,  and  sometimes  carried  his  end  of  it.  The  night  was 
chilly;  my  feet  were  wet  with  splashing  in  the  brook,  and  I 
was  growing  faint  with  hunger,  when  Barnaby  called  a halt. 

“ We  are  now,”  he  said,  “ at  the  head  of  the  stream.  In 
half  an  hour  or  thereabouts  it  will  be  break  of  day.  Let  us 
rest.  Mother,  you  must  eat  something.  Come,  sister,  *tis 
late  for  supper,  and  full  early  for  breakfast.  Take  some 
meat  and  bread  and  half  a cup  of  cider/ 9 

It  is  all  I remember  of  that  night. 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


163 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  CAMP  IN  THE  COOMB. 

Our  camping-place  when  I awoke  in  the  morning  I found 
to  be  near  the  head  of  a most  beautiful  coomb  or  valley  among 
the  Black  Down  Hills.  I knew  it  not  at  the  time,  but  it  was 
not  far  from  that  old  Roman  castle  which  we  had  passed  on 
our  way  to  Taunton,  called  Castle  Ratch.  The  hills  rose  steep 
on  either  hand,  their  slopes  hidden  by  trees.  At  our  feet  the 
brook  took  its  rise  in  a green  quagmire.  The  birds  were  sing- 
ing, and  the  sun  was  already  high,  and  the  air  was  warm, 
though  there  was  a fresh  breeze  blowing.  The  warmth  and 
sweetness  filled  my  soul  when  I awoke,  and  I sat  up  with  joy, 
until  suddenly  I remembered  why  we  were  here  and  who  were 
here  with  me.  Then  my  heart  sunk  like  a lump  of  lead  in 
water.  I looked  around.  My  father  lay,  just  as  he  had  been 
lying  all  the  day  before,  motionless,  white  of  cheek,  and  as  one 
dead,  save  for  the  slight  motiqn  of  his  chest  and  the  twitching 
of  his  nostril.  As  I looked  at  him  in  the  clear  morning  light 
it  was  borne  in  upon  me  very  strongly  that  he  was  indeed 
dead,  inasmuch  as  his  soul  seemed  to  have  fled.  He  saw 
nothing,  he  felt  nothing.  If  the  flies  crawled  over  his  eyelids 
he  made  no  sign  of  disturbance;  yet  he  breathed,  and  from 
time  to  time  he  murmured,  but  as  one  that  dreameth.  Beside 
him  lay  my  mother  sleeping,  worn  out  by  the  fatigues  of  the 
night.  Barnaby  had  spread  his  coat  to  cover  her,  so  that  she 
should  not  take,  cold,  and  he  had  piled  a little  heap  of  dead 
leaves  to  make  her  a pillow.  He  was  lying  at  her  feet,  head 
on  arm,  sleeping  heavily.  What  should  be  done,  I wondered, 
when  next  he  woke? 

First  I went  down  the  coomb  a little  way  till  the  stream  was 
deep  enough,  and  there  I bathed  my  feet,  which  were  swollen 
and  bruised  by  the  long  walk  up  the  coomb.  Though  it  was  in 
the  midst  of  so  much  misery,  there  was  a pleasure  of  dabbling 
my  feet  in  the  cool  water,  and  afterward  of  walking  about 
barefoot  in  the  grass.  I disturbed  an  adder  which  was  sleep- 
ing on  a flat  stone  in  the  sun,  and  it  lifted  its  venomous  head 
and  hissed,  but  did  not  spring  upon  me.  Then  I washed  my 
face  and  hands,  and  made  my  hair  as  smooth  as  without  a 
comb  it  was  possible.  When  1 had  done  this  I remembered 
that  perhaps  my  father  might  be  thirsty,  or  at  least  able  to 
drink,  though  he  seemed  no  more  to  feel  hunger  or  thirst.  So 


164 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


I filled  the  tin  pannikin — it  was  Barnaby’s— with  water,  and 
tried  to  pour  a little  into  his  mouth.  He  seemed  to  swallow 
it,  and  I gave  him  a little  more,  until  he  would  swallow  no 
more.  Observe  that  he  took  no  other  nourishment  than  a 
little  water,  wine  or  milk,  or  a few  drops  of  broth,  until  the 
end.  So  I covered  his  face  with  a handkerchief  to  keep  off 
the  flies,  and  left  him.  Then  I looked  into  the  basket.  All 
that  there  was  in  it  would  not  be  more  than  enough  for 
Barnaby*s  breakfast,  unless  his  appetite  should  fail  him  by 
reason  of  fear,  though  in  truth  he  had  no  fear  of  being  cap- 
tured, or  of  anything  else.  There  was  in  it  a piece  of  bacon, 
a large  loaf  of  bread,  a lump  of  cheese,  a bottle  of  cider; 
nothing  more.  When  these  provisions  were  gone,  what  next? 
Could  we  venture  into  the  nearest  village  and  buy  food,  or  to 
the  first  farm-house?  Then  we  might  fall  straight  into  the 
jaws  of  the  enemy,  who  were  probably  running  over  the  whole 
country  in  search  of  the  fugitives.  Could  we  buy  without 
money?  Could  we  beg  without  arousing  suspicions?  If  the 
people  were  well  inclined  to  the  Protestant  cause  we  might 
trust  them.  But  how  could  we  tell  that?  So  in  my  mind  I 
turned  over  everything  except  the  one  thing  which  might  have 
proved  our  salvation,  and  that  you  shall  hear  directly.  Also, 
which  was  a very  strange  thing,  I quite  forgot  that  I had  upon 
me,  tied  by  a string  round  my  waist  and  well  concealed, 
Barnaby’s  bag  of  gold — two  hundred  and  fifty  pieces.  Thus 
there  was  money  enough  and  to  spare.  I discovered  next  that 
our  pony  had  run  away  in  the  night.  The  cart  was  there,  but 
no  pony  to  drag  it.  Well,  it  was  not  much,  but  it  seemed  an 
additional  burden  to  bear.  I ventured  the  little  way  up  the 
valley,  following  a sheep  track  which  mounted  higher  and 
higher.  I saw  no  sign  anywhere  of  maifls  presence;  it  is 
marked  in  woods  by  circles  of  burned  cinders,  by  trees  felled, 
by  bundles  of  broom  or  fern  tied  up,  or  by  shepherds*  huts. 
Here  there  was  nothing  at  all;  you  would  have  said  that  the 
place  had  never  been  visited  by  man.  Presently  I came  to  a 
place  where  the  woods  ceased,  the  last  of  the  trees  being  much 
stunted  and  blown  over  from  the  west,  and  then  the  top  of 
the  hill  began,  not  a sharp  p'ico  or  point,  but  a great  open 
plain  swelling  out  here  and  flat  there,  with  many  of  the  little 
hillocks  which  people  say  are  ancient  tombs.  And  no  trees  at 
all,  but  only  bare  turf,  so  that  one  could  see  a great  way  off. 
But  there  was  no  sign  of  man  anywhere;  no  smoke  in  the 
coomb  at  my  feet;  no  shepherd  on  the  hill.  At  this  juncture 
of  our  fortunes  any  stranger  might  be  an  enemy,  therefore  I 
returned,  so  far  well  pleased. 


FOR  FAITH  AMD  FREEDOM, 


165 


Barnaby  was  now  awake,  and  was  inspecting  the  basket  of 
provisions. 

“ Sister,”  he  said,  “ we  must  go  upon  half  rations  for 
breakfast,  but  I hope,  unless  my  skill  fails,  to  bring  you 
something  far  better  for  supper.  The  bread  you  shall  have, 
and  mother.  The  bacon  may  keep  till  to-morrow.  The 
cider  you  had  better  keep  against  such  times  as  you  feel  worn 
out  and  want  a cordial,  though  a glass  of  Nantz  were  better, 
if  Nantz  grew  in  the  woods.  ” He  looked  around  as  if  to  see 
whether  a miracle  would  not  provide  him  with  a flask  of 
strong  drink,  but  seeing  none,  shook  his  head. 

“As  for  me,”  he  went  on,  “I  am  a sailor,  and  I under- 
stand how  to  forage.  Therefore,  yesterday,  foreseeing  that 
the  provisions  might  give  out,  I dropped  the  shank  of  the  ham 
into  my  pocket.  Now  you  shall  see.” 

He  produced  this  delicate  morsel,  and,  sitting  down,  began 
to  gnaw  and  to  bite  into  the  bone  with  his  strong  teeth,  exactly 
like  a dog.  This  he  continued,  with  every  sign  of  satisfaction, 
for  a quarter  of  an  hour  or  so,  when  he  desisted,  and  replaced 
the  bone  in  his  pocket. 

“We  throw  away  the  bones,”  he  said;  “the  dogs  gnaw 
them  and  devour  them.  Think  you  that  it  is  for  their  amuse- 
ment? Not  so,  but  for  the  juices  and  the  nourishment  that 
are  in  and  around  the  bone;  for  the  marrow  and  for  the  meat 
that  still  will  stick  in  odd  corners.”  He  went  down  to  the 
stream  with  the  pannikin,  and  .drank  a cup  or  two  of  water  to 
finish  what  they  call  a horse’s  meal,  namely,  the  food  first  and 
the  water  afterward. 

“ And  now,”  he  said,  “ I have  breakfasted.  It  is  true  that 
I am  still  hungry,  but  I have 'eaten  enough  to  carry  me  on  a 
while.  Many  a poor  lad  cast  away  on  a desert  shore  would 
find  the  shank  of  a ham  a meal  fit  for  a king;  ay,  and  a meal 
or  two  after  that.  I shall  make  a dinner  presently  olf  this 
bone,  and  I shall  still  keep  it  against  a time  when  there  may 
be  no  provision  left.  ” 

“And  now,”  he  said,  looking  around  him,  “let  us  con- 
sider. The  troopers,  I take  it,  are  riding  along  the  roads. . 
Whether  they  will  ride  over  these  hills  I know  not,  but  I think 
they  will  not,  because  their  horses  can  not  well  ride  up  these 
coombs.  Certainly,  if  they  do,  it  will  not  be  by  the  way  we 
came.  We  are  here,  therefore,  hidden  away  snug.  Why 
should  we  budge?  Nowhere  is  there  a more  deserted  part  of 
the  country  than  Black  Down,  on  whose  side  we  are.  And  1 
do  not  think,  further,  that  we  should  find  anywhere  a safer 
place  to  hide  ourselves  in  than  this  coomb,  where,  I dare  say. 


166 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


no  one  comes,  unless  it  be  the  gypsies  or  the  broom-squires, 
all  the  year  round.  And  now  they  are  all  laden  with  the  spoil 
of  the  army — for  after  a battle  this  gentry  swoop  down  upon 
the  field  like  the  great  birds  which  I have  seen  abroad  upon 
the  carcasses  of  drowned  beasts,  and  plunder  the  dead.  Next 
they  must  go  into  town  in  order  to  sell  their  booty,  then  they 
will  be  fain  to  drink  about  till  all  is  spent,  so  they  will  leave 
us  undisturbed.  Therefore  we  will  stay  here,  sister.  First,  I 
will  go  try  the  old  tricks  by  which  I did  often  in  the  old  time 
improve  the  fare  at  home.  Next  I will  devise  some  way  of 
making  a more  comfortable  resting-place.  Thank  the  Lord 
for  fine  weather  so  far. 99 

He  was  gone  a couple  of  hours.  During  that  time  my 
mother  awoke.  Her  mind  was  broken  by  the  suddenness  of 
this  trouble,  and  she  cared  no  more  to  speak,  sitting  still  by 
the  side  of  her  husband,  and  watching  for  any  change  in  him. 
But  I persuaded  her  to  take  a little  bread  and  a cup  of  cider. 

When  Barnaby  came  back  he  brought  with  him  a blackbird, 
a thrush,  and  two  wood-pigeons.  He  had  not  forgotten  the 
tricks  of  his  boyhood,  when  he  would  often  bring  home  a 
rabbit,  a hare,  or  a basket  of  trout.  So  that  my  chief  terror, 
that  we  might  be  forced  to  abandon  our  hiding-place  through 
sheer  hunger,  was  removed.  But  Barnaby  was  full  of  all 
kinds  of  devices. 

He  then  set  to  work  with  his  great  knife,  cutting  down  a 
quantity  of  green  branches,  which  he  laid  out  side  by  side, 
with  their  leaves  on,  and  then  bound  them  together,  cleverly 
interlacing  the  smaller  shoots  and  branches  with  each  other, 
so  that  he  made  a long  kind  of  hurdle  about  six  feet  high. 
This,  which  by  reason  of  the  leases  was  almost  impervious  to 
the  wind,  he  disposed  round  the  trunks  of  three  young  trees 
growing  near  each  other.  Thus  he  made  a small  three- 
cornered  inclosure.  Again  he  cut  other  and  thicker  branches, 
and  laid  them  over  and  across  this  hurdle,  and  cut  turf,  which 
he  placed  upon  the  branches,  so  that  here  was  now  a hut  with 
a roof  and  walls  complete.  Said  I not  that  Barnaby  was  full 
of  devices? 

“ There,”  he  said,  when  all  was  ready,  “ is  a house  for  you. 
It  will  have  to  rain  hard  and  long  before  the  water  begins  to 
drop  through  the  branches  which  make  the  roof  and  the  slabs 
of  turf.  Well,  *tis  a shelter.  Not  so  comfortable  as  the  old 
cottage,  perhaps,  but  nearly  as  commodious.  If  it  is  not  a 
palace  it  will  serve  us  to  keep  off  the  sun  by  day  and  the  dew 
by  night. 99 

Next  he  gathered  a great  quantity  of  dry  fern,  dead  leaves. 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


167 


and  heather,  and  these  he  disposed  within  the  hut,  so  that  they 
made  a thick  and  warm  carpet  or  covering.  Nay,  at  night 
they  even  formed  a covering  for  the  feet,  and  prevented  one 
from  feeling  cold.  When  all  was  done  he  lifted  my  father 
gently,  and  laid  him  with  great  tenderness  upon  this  carpet 
within  the  rude  shelter. 

“ This  shall  he  a warmer  night  for  thee  than  the  last,  dad,” 
he  said.  “ There  shall  be  no  jolting  of  thy  poor  bones.  What, 
mother?  We  can  live  here  till  the  cold  weather  comes.  The 
wind  will  perhaps  blow  a bit  through  the  leaves  to  might,  but 
not  much,  and  to-morrow  I will  see  to  that.  Be  easy  in  your 
mind  about  the  provisions.”  Alas!  my  poor  mother  was 
thinking  of  anything  in  the  world  except  the  provisions. 
“ There  are  rabbits  and  birds  in  plenty;  we  can  catch  them 
and  eat  them.  Bread  we  must  do  without  when  what  we  have 
is  gone,  and  as  for  strong  drink  and  tobacco” — he  sighed 
heavily — “ they  will  come  again  when  better  times  are  served 
out.” 

In  these  labors  I helped  as  much  as  I was  able,  and  par- 
ticularly in  twisting  the  branches  together.  And  thus  the 
whole  day  passed,  not  tediously,  and  without  any  alarms,  the 
labor  being  cheered  by  the  hopefulness  of  Barnaby's  honest 
face.  No  one,  to  look  at  that  face,  could  believe  that  he  was 
flying  for  his  life,  and  would  be  hanged  if  he  was  caught. 
After  sunset  we  lighted  a fire,  but  a small  one  only,  and  well 
hidden  by  the  woods,  so  that  its  light  might  not  be  seen  from 
below.  Then  Barnaby  dexterously  plucked  and  trussed  the 
birds  and  roasted  them  in  the  embers,  so  that  had  my  heart 
been  at  rest  I should  have  had  a most  delicious  supper.  And 
I confess  that  I did  begin  to  pluck  up  a little  courage,  and  to 
hope  that  we  might  yet  escape,  and  that  Robin  might  be 
living.  After  supper  my  mother  prayed,  and  I could  join 
with  more  of  resignation  and  something  of  faith.  Alas!  in 
times  of  trial  how  easily  doth  the  Christian  fall  from  faith. 
The  day  before  prayer  seemed  to  be  a mockery;  it  was  as  if 
all  prayer  were  addressed  to  a deaf  God,  or  to  One  who  will 
not  hear,  for  our  prayers  had  all  been  for  safety  and  victory, 
and  we  were  suddenly  answered  with  disaster  and  defeat. 

After  supper  Barnaby  sat  beside  the  embers,  and  began  to 
talk  in  a low  voice. 

“ 'Twill  be  a sorrowful  barley-mow  song  this  year,”  he  said; 
“ a dozen  brave  lads  from  Bradford  alone  will  be  dead.  ” 

“ Not  all  dead,  Barnaby.  Oh,  not  all.” 

“ I know  not.  Some  are  prisoners,  some  are  dead,  some  are 
running  away.”  Then  he  began  to  sing  in  a low  voice: 


168 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


E<  c Here’s  a health  to  the  barley-mow  ’ — 

I remember,  sister,  when  I would  run  a mile  to  hear  that  song, 
though  my  father  flogged  me  for  it  in  the  morning.  "Tis  the 
best  song  ever  written.”  He  went  on  singing  in  a kind  of 
whisper: 

“ ‘ We’ll  drink  it  out  of  the  nipperkin,  boys  ’— 

Eobin — poor  Eobin!  he  is  dead! — was  a famous  hand  at  sing- 
ing; but  Humphrey  found  the  words  too  rustical.  Humphrey 
— who  is  now  dead,  too — was  ever  for  fine  words,  like  Mr. 
Boscorel. 

‘ We’ll  drink  it  out  of  the  jolly  brown  bow].’ 

I think  1 see  him  now — poor  Eobin!  Well,  he  is  no  more. 
He  used  to  laugh  in  all  our  faces  while  he  sang  it: 

“ ‘ We’ll  drink  it  out  o’  the  river,  my  boys. 

Here’s  a health  to  the  barley- mow! 

The  river,  the  well,  the  pipe,  the  hogshead,  the  half- 
Hogshead,  the  anker,  the  lialf-anker,  the  gallon,  the 
Pottle,  the  quart,  the  pint,  the  half- pint,  the  quarter- 
Pint,  the  nipperkin,  the  jolly  brown  bowl,  my  boys. 

Here’s  a health  to  the  barley- mow!’  ” 

He  trolled  out  the  song  in  a melodious  whisper.  Oh,  Barnaby, 
how  didst  thou  love  good  companionship  with  singing  and 
drinking. 

“ 'Twill  be  lonely  for  thee,  sister,  at  Bradford  when  thou 
dost  return;  Sir  Christopher,  I take  it,  will  not  long  hold  up 
his  head,  and  madame  will  pine  away  for  the  loss  of  Eobin, 
and  mother  looks  as  if  she  would  follow  after,  so  white  and 
wan  is  she.  If  she  would  speak,  or  complain,  or  cry  it  would 
comfort  her,  poor  soul.  'Twas  a sad  day  for  her  when  she 
married  the  poor  old  dad.  Poverty  and  hard  work,  and  now 
a cruel  end  to  her  marriage — poor  mother!” 

“ Barnaby,  you  tear  my  heart.” 

“ Nay,  child,  'tis  better  to  talk  than  to  keep  silence.  Better 
have  your  heart  torn  than  be  choked  with  your  pain.  Thou 
art  like  unto  a man  who  hath  a wounded  leg,  and  if  he  doth 
not  consent  to  have  it  cut  off,  though  the  anguish  be  sharp, 
he  will  presently  bleed  to  death.  Say  to  thyself,  therefore, 
plain  .and  clear,  ‘ Eobin  is  dead;  I have  lost  my  sweetheart.  * ” 
“ No,  no,  Barnaby;  I can  not  say  those  cruel  words.  Oh,  I 
can  not  say  them.  I can  not  feel  that  Eobin  is  truly  dead.” 

“ Put  the  case  that  he  is  living.  Then  he  is  either  a prisoner 
or  he  is  in  hiding.  If  a prisoner  he  is  as  good  as  dead,  because 
the  duke's  officers  and  the  gentlemen  who  joined  him  they  will 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


169 


never  forgive — that  is  quite  certain.  If  I were  a prisoner  I 
should  feel  my  neck  already  tightened.  If  he  is  not  a prisoner, 
where  is  he  to  hide? — whither  betake  himself?  I can  get  sail- 
ors* duds  and  go  abroad  before  the  mast,  and  ten  to  one  no- 
body will  find  me  out,  because,  d*ye  see,  I can  talk  the  sailors* 
language,  and  I know  their  manners  and  customs.  But  Robin 
—what  is  Robin  to  do  if  he  is  alive?  And  this,  I say,  is  doubt- 
ful. Best  say  to  thyself,  4 1 have  lost. my  sweetheart.*  So  wilt 
thou  all  the  sooner  recover  thy  cheerfulness.  ** 

44  Barnaby,  you  know  not  what  you  say.  Alas!  if  my  Robin 
is  dead — if  my  boy  is  truly  dead — then  I ask  for  nothing  more 
than  swift  death,  speedy  death,  to  join  him  and  be  with  him!** 

44  If  he  escape  he  will  make  for  Bradford  Orcas  and  hide  in 
the  Corton  woods.  That  is  quite  certain.  They  always  make 
for  home.  I would  that  we  were  in  that  friendly  place,  so 
that  you  could  go  live  in  the  cottage  and  bring  provisions  with 
tobacco  to  us,  unsuspected  and  unseen.  When  we  have  rested 
here  awhile  we  will  push  across  the  hills  and  try  to  get  there 
by  night,  but  it  is  a weary  way  to  drag  that  wounded  man. 
However  ** — he  broke  off  and  said,  earnestly — 44  make  up  thy 
mind,  child,  to  the  worst.  *Tis  as  if  a shipwrecked  man 
should  hope  that  enough  of  the  ship  would  float  to  carry  him 
home  withal.  Make  up  thy  mind.  We  are  all  ruined  and 
lost — all — all — all.  Thy  father  is  dying;  thy  lover  is  dead; 
thou  art  thyself  in  great  danger  by  reason  of  that  affair  at 
Taunton.  Everything  being  gone,  turn  round  therefore  and 
make  thyself  as  comfortable  as  possible.  What  will  happen 
we  know  not.  Therefore  count  every  day  of  safety  for  gain, 
and  every  meal  for  a respite.** 

He  was  silent  for  a while,  leaving  me  to  think  over  what  he 
had  said.  Here,  indeed,  was  a philosopher.  Things  being  all 
lost,  and  our  affairs  in  a desperate  condition,  we  were  to  turn 
round  and  make  ourselves  as  comfortable  as  we  could.  This, 
I suppose,  is  what  sailors  are  wont  to  do;  certainly  they  are  a 
folk  more  exposed  to  misfortune  than  others,  and  therefore, 
perhaps,  more  ready  to  make  the  best  of  whatever  happens. 

44  Barnaby,**  I said  presently,  44  how  can  I turn  round  and 
make  myself  comfortable?** 

44  The  evening  is  still,**  he  said,  without  replying.  44  See! 
there  is  a bat,  and  there  another.  If  it  were  not  for  the 
trouble  in  there  ** — he  pointed  to  the  hut — 44 1 should  be  easy 
in  my  mind  and  contented.  I could  willingly  live  here  a 
twelvemonth.  Why,  compared  with  the  lot  of  the  poor  devils 
who  must  now  be  in  prison,  what  is  ours?  They  get  the  foul 
and  stinking  clink,  with  bad  food,  in  the  midst  of  wounded 


170 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


men  whose  hurts  are  putrifying,  with  jail  fever,  and  with  the 
whipping-post  or  the  gallows  to  come.  We  breathe  sweet  air, 
we  find  sufficient  food — to-morrow,  if  I know  any  of  the  signs, 
thou  shalt  taste  a roasted  hedgehog — dish  fit  for  a king!  I 
found  at  the  bottom  of  the  coomb  a pot  left  by  some  gypsies; 
thou  shalt  have  boiled  sorrel  and  mushrooms  to  thy  supper. 
If  we  stay  here  long  enough  there  will  be  nuts  and  black- 
berries and  whortleberries.  Pity,  a thousand  pities,  there  is 
not  a drop  of  drink.  I dream  of  punch  and  hipsy.  Think 
upon  what  remains,  even  if  thou  canst  not  bear  to  think  of 
what  is  lost.  Hast  ever  seen  a tall  ship  founder  in  the  waves? 
They  close  over  her  as  she  sinks,  and  in  an  instant,  it  is  as  if 
that  tall  ship  with  all  her  crew  had  never  been  in  existence  at 
all.  The  army  of  Monmouth  is  scattered  and  ruined.  Well, 
it  is  with  us,  amid  these  woods,  just  as  if  there  had  been  no 
army.  It  has  been  a dream  perhaps.  Who  can  tell?  Some- 
times all  the  past  seems  to  have  been  a dream.  It  is  all  a 
dream-past  and  future.  There  is  no  past  and  there  is  no 
future;  all  is  a dream.  But  the  present  we  have.  Let  us  be 
content  therewith.” 

He  spoke  slowly  and  with  measured  accents,  as  one  en- 
chanted. Sometimes  Barnaby  was  but  a rough  and  rude 
sailor.  At  other  times,  as  these,  he  betrayed  signs  of  his  early 
education,  and  spoke  as  one  who  thought. 

“It  is  ten  years  and  more  since  last  I breathed  the  air  of 
the  hills.  I knew  not  that  I loved  so  much  the  woods  and 
valleys  and  the  streams.  Some  day,  if  I survive  this  adven- 
ture, I will  build  me  a hut  and  live  here  alone  in  the  woods. 
Why,  if  I were  alone  I should  have  an  easy  heart.  If  I were 
driven  out  of  one  place  I could  find  another.  I am  in  no 
hurry  to  get  down  among  men  and  towns.  Let  us  all  stay 
here  and  be  happy.  But  there  is  dad,  who  lives  not,  yet  is  not 
dead.  Sister,  be  thankful  for  thy  safety  in  the  woods,  and 
think  not  too  much  upon  the  dead.  ” 

We  lived  in  this  manner,  the  weather  being  for  the  most 
part  fine  and  warm,  but  with  showers  now  and  then,  for  a 
fortnight  or  thereabouts,  no  one  coming  up  the  coomb,  and 
there  being  still  no  sign  of  man's  presence  in  the  hills.  Our 
daily  fare  consisted  of  the  wild  birds  snared  by  Barnaby,  such 
creatures  as  rabbits,  hedgehogs,  and  the  like,  which  he  caugh£ 
by  ingenious  ways,  and  trout  from  the  brook,  which  he  caught 
with  a twisted  pin  or  by  tickling  them  with  his  hand.  There 
were  also  mushrooms  and  edible  leaves,  such  as  the  nettle,  wild 
sorrel,  and  the  like,  of  which  he  knew.  These  we  boiled  and 
eat,  He  also  plucked  the  half -ripe  blackberries^  and  boiled 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


171 


them  to  make  a sour  drink,  and  one  which,  like  the  cider 
loved  by  our  people,  would  grip  his  throat,  because  he  could 
not  endure  plain  cold  water.  And  he  made  out  of  the  bones 
of  the  birds  a kind  of  thin  broth  for  my  father,  of  which  he 
daily  swallowed  a teaspoonful  or  so.  So  that  we  fared  well,  if 
not  sumptuously.  The  bread,  to  be  sure,  which  Barnaby  left 
for  mother  and  me  was  coming  to  the  last  crust,  and  I know 
not  how  we  should  have  got  more  without  venturing  into  the 
nearest  village. 

Now  as  I talked  every  night  with  my  brother  I found  out 
what  a brave  and  simple  soul  it  was,  always  cheerful  and  hope- 
ful, talking  always  as  if  we  were  the  most  fortunate  people  in 
the  world,  instead  of  the  most  miserable,  and  yet,  by  keeping 
the  truth  before  me,  preventing  me  from  getting  into  another 
FooFs  Paradise  as  to  our  safety  and  Bob hPs  escape,  such  as 
that  into  which  I had  fallen  after  the  army  marched  out  of 
Taunton.  I understand  now  that  he  was  always  thinking  how 
to  smooth  and  soften  things  for  us,  so  that  we  might  not  go 
distracted  with  anxiety  and  grief;  finding  work  for  me,  talk- 
ing about  other  things— in  short,  the  most  thoughtful  and 
affectionate  brother  in  all  the  world.  As  for  my  mother,  he 
could  do  nothing  to  move  her.  She  still  sat  beside  her 
wounded  husband,  watching  all  day  long  for  any  sign  of  con- 
sciousness or  change. 

Seeing  that  Barnaby  was  so  good  and  gentle  a creature,  I 
could  not  understand  how  it  was  that  in  the  old  days  he  used 
to  get  a flogging  most  days  for  some  offense  or  other,  so  that 
T had  grown  up  to  believe  him  a very  wicked  boy  indeed.  I 
put  this  question  to  him  one  night. 

He  put  it  aside  for  a while,  replying  in  his  own  fashion. 

“I  remember  dad,”  he  said,  “before  thou  canst,  sister. 
He  was  always  thin  and  tall,  and  he  always  stooped  as  he 
walked.  But  his  hair,  which  now  is  white,  was  brown,  and 
fell  in  curls  which  he  could  not  straighten.  He  was  always 
mighty  grave;  no  one,  I am  sure,  ever  saw  him  laugh;  I have 
never  seen  him  so  much  as  smile,  except  sometimes  when  he 
dandled  thee  upon  his  knee,  and  thou  wouldst  amuse  him  with 
innocent  prattle.  All  his  life  he  hath  spent  in  finding  out  the 
way  to  Heaven.  He  did  find  the  way — I suppose  he  hath  truly 
discovered  it — and  a mighty  thorny  and  difficult  way  it  is,  so 
that  I know  not  how  any  can  succeed  in  reaching  port  by  such 
navigation.  The  devil  of  it  is  that  he  believes  there  is  no 
other  way,  and  he  seemed  never  so  happy  as  when  he  had 
found  another  trap  or  pitfall  to  catch  the  unwary,  and  send 
them  straight  to  hell. 


172 


FOR  FAITH  A^D  FREEDOM. 


“ For  my  part,""  Barnaby  went  on,  slowly,  “ I could  never 
love  such  a life.  Let  others,  if  they  will,  find  out  rough  and 
craggy  ways  that  lead  to  Heaven.  For  my  part,  I am  content 
to  go  along  the  plain  and  smooth  high-road  with  the  rest  of 
mankind,  though  it  brings  us  to  a lower  place,  inhabited  by 
the  baser  sort.  Well,  I dare  say  I shall  find  mates  there,  and 
we  will  certainly  make  ourselves  as  comfortable  as  the  place 
allows.  Let  my  father,  therefore,  find  out  what  awaits  him 
in  the  other  world;  let  me  take  what  comes  in  this.  Some  of 
it  is  sweet,  and  some  is  bitter;  some  of  it  makes  us  laugh  and 
sing  and  dance,  and  some  makes  us  curse  and  swear  and 
bellow  out  as  when  one  is  lashed  to  the  hatches  and  the  cat 
falls  on  his  naked  back.  Sometimes,  sister,  I think  the  naked 
negroes  of  the  west  coast  the  happiest  people  in  the  world. 
Do  they  trouble  their  heads  about  the  way  to  Heaven?  Not 
they.  What  comes  they  take,  and  they  ask  no  more.  Has  it 
made  dad  the  happier  to  find  out  how  few  are  those  who  sit 
beside  him  when  he  hath  his  harp  and  crown?  Not  so.  He 
would  have  been  happier  if  he  had  been  a jolly  plowboy 
whistling  to  his  team,  or  a jolly  sailor  singing  over  his  panni- 
kin of  drink  of  a Saturday  night.  He  tried  to  make  me  follow 
in  his  footsteps;  he  flogged  me  daily  in  the  hope  of  making  me 
take,  like  himself,  to  the  trade  of  proving  to  people  out  of  the 
Holy  Bible  that  they  are  surely  damned.  . The  more  he  flogged 
the  less  I yearned  after  that  trade,  till  at  last  I resolved  that, 
come  what  would,  I would  never  thump  a pulpit  like  him  in 
conventicle  or  church.  Then,  if  you  will  believe  me,  sister,  I 
grew  tired  of  flogging,  which,  when  it  comes  every  day,  wearies 
a boy  at  fourteen  or  fifteen  more  than  you  would  think.  Now, 
one  day  while  I was  dancing  to  the  pipe  and  tabor  with  some 
of  the  village  girls,  as  bad  luck  would  have  it,  dad  came  by. 

6 Child  of  Satan!"  he  roared,  seizing  me  by  the  ear,  which  I 
verily  thought  he  would  have  pulled  off.  Then  to  the  girls, 
‘ Your  laughter  shall  be  turned  into  mourning/  and  so  lugged 
me  home  and  sent  me  supperless  to  bed,  with  the  promise  of 
such  a flogging  in  the  morning  as  should  make  all  previous 
floggings  seem  mere  flea-bites  or  joyous  ticklings  in  compari- 
son. This  decided  me.  So  in  the  dead  of  night  I crept  softly 
down  the  stairs,  cut  myself  a great  hunch  of  bread  and  cheese, 
and  so  ran  away  and  went  to  sea."" 

“ Barnaby,  was  it  well  done — to  run  away?"" 

“ Well,  sister,  "tis  done,  and  if  it  was,  ill  done,  "tis  by  this 
time,  no  doubt,  forgotten.  Now,  remember,  I blame  not  my 
father.  Before  all  things  he  would  save  my  soul  alive.  That 
was  why  he  flogged  me.  He  knew  but  one  way,  and  along 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


173 


that  way  he  would  drive  me.  So  he  flogged  me  the  harder.  I 
blame  him  not.  Yet  had  I remained  he  would  doubtless  be 
flogging  me  still.  Now  remember,  again,  that  ever  since  I 
understood  anything  I have  always  been  enraged  to  think  upon 
the  monstrous  oppression  which  silenced  him  and  brought  us 
all  to  poverty,  and  made  my  mother,  a gentlewoman  born, 
work  her  fingers  to  the  bone,  and  caused  me  to  choose  between 
being  a beggarly  scholar,  driven  to  teach  brats  and  endure 
flouts  and  poverty,  or  to  put  on  an  apron  and  learn  a trade. 
Wherefore,  when  I found  that  Monmouth  was  going  to  hoist 
his  flag  I came  with  him  in  order  to  strike  a blow,  and  I hoped 
a good  blow,  too,  at  the  oppressors.” 

“ You  have  struck  that  blow,  Barnaby,  and  where  are  we?” 

He  laughed. 

“ We  are  in  hiding.  Some  of  the  king's  troopers  did  I 
make  to  bite  the  dust.  They  may  hang  me  for  it  if  they  will. 
They  will  not  bring  those  troopers  back  to  life.  Well — Sis- 
ter, I am  sleepy.  Good-night.” 

We  might  have  continued  this  kind  of  life  I know  not  how 
much  longer.  Certainly  till  the  cold  nights  came.  The 
weather  continued  fine  and  warm,  the  hut  kept  off  dews  at 
night;  we  lay  warm  among  the  heather  and  the  ferns;  Barna- 
by found  a sufficiency  of  food;  my  father  grew  no  worse  to 
outward  seeming,  and  we  seemed  in  safety. 

Then  an  ill  chance  and  my  own  foolishness  marred  all. 

One  day,  in  the  afternoon,  Barnaby  being  away  looking 
after  his  snares  and  gins,  I heard,  lower  down  the  coomb, 
voices  of  boys  talking.  This  affrighted  me  terribly.  The 
voices  seemed  to  be  drawing  nearer.  Now  if  the  children 
came  up  as  high  as  our  encampment  they  could  not  fail  to  see 
the  signs  of  habitation.  There  was  the  hut  among  the  trees 
and  the  iron  pot  standing  among  the  gray  embers  of  last 
night's  fire.  The  cart  stood  on  one  side.  We  could  not  possi- 
bly remain  hidden.  If  they  should  come  up  so  far  and  find 
us  they  would  certainly  carry  the  report  of  us  down  to  the 
village. 

I considered,  therefore,  what  to  do,  and  then  ran  quickly 
down  the  coomb,  keeping  among  the  trees,  so  as  not  to  be  seen. 

After  a little  I discovered,  a little  way  off,  a couple  of  boys 
about  nine  years  of  age.  They  were  common  village  boys, 
rosy-faced  and  wholesome;  they  carried  a basket,  and  they 
were  slowly  making  their  way  up  the  stream,  stopping  now  to 
throw  a stone  at  a squirrel.,  and  now  to  dam  the  running 
water,  and  now  to  find  a nut  or  filbert  ripe  enough  to  be 
eaten.  By  the  basket  which  they  carried  I knew  that  they 


174 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


were  come  in  search  of  whortleberries,  for  which  purpose  they 
would  have  to  get  quite  to  the  end  of  the  comb  and  the  top  of 
the  hill. 

Therefore  I stepped  out  of  the  wood  and  asked  them  whence 
they  came  and  whither  they  were  going. 

They  told  me  in  the  broadest  Somersetshire  (the  language 
which  I love,  and  would  willingly  have  written  this  book  in  it, 
but  for  the  unfortunate  people  who  can  not  understand  it) 
that  they  were  sent  by  their  parents  to  get  whortleberries,  and 
that  they  came  from  the  little  village  of  Corfe,  two  miles  down 
the  valley.  This  was  all  they  had  to  say,  and  they  stared  at 
me  as  shyly  as  if  they  had  never  before  encountered  a stranger. 
I clearly  perceive  now  that  I ought  to  have  engaged  them  in 
conversation,  and  drawn  them  gently  down  the  valley  in  the 
direction  of  the  village  until  we  reached  the  first  appearance  of 
a road,  when  I could  have  bidden  them  farewell,  or  sent  them 
up  the  hill  by  another  coomb.  But  I was  so  anxious  that  they 
should  not  come  up  any  higher  that  I committed  a great  mis- 
take, and  warned  them  against  going  on. 

“ Boys,”  I said,  “ beware.  If  you  go  higher  up  the  coomb 
you  will  certainly  meet  wild  men,  who  always  rob  and  beat 
boys.”  Here  they  trembled,  though  they  had  not  a penny  in 
the  world.  “ Ay,  boys,  and  sometimes  have  been  known  to 
murder  them.  Turn  back,  turn  back,  and  come  no  further.” 

The  boys  were  very  much  frightened,  partly  at  the  ajipari- 
tion  of  a stranger  where  they  expected  to  find  no  one,  and 
partly  at  the  news  of  wild  and  murderous  men  in  a place 
where  they  had  never  met  with  any  one  at  all,  unless  it  might 
have  been  a gypsy  camp.  After  gazing  at  me  stupidly  for  a 
little  while  they  turned  and  ran  away,  as  fast  as  their  legs 
could  carry  them,  down  the  coomb. 

I watched  them  running,  and  when  they  were  out  of  sight  I 
went  back  again,  still  disquieted,  because  they  might  return. 

When  I told  Barnaby,  in  the  evening,  he  too  was  uneasy. 
For,  he  said,  the  boys  would  spread  abroad  the  report  that 
there  were  people  in  the  valley.  What  people  could  there  be 
but  fugitives?” 

“ Sister,”  he  said,  “to-morrow  morning  must  we  change 
our  quarters.  On  the  other  side  of  the  hills  looking  south,  or 
to  the  east  in  Neroche  Forest,  we  may  make  another  camp, 
and  be  still  more  secluded.  For  to-night  I think  we  are  in 
safety.  ” 

What  liapponed  was  exactly  as  Barnaby  thought.  For  the 
lads  ran  home  and  told  everybody  that  up  in  the  coomb  there 
were  wild  men  who  robbed  and  murdered  people;  that  a lady 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


175 


had  come  out  of  the  wood  and  warned  them  to  go  no  further  lest 
they  should  be  robbed  and  murdered.  They  were  certain  it 
was  a lady,  and  not  a countrywoman,  nor  was  it  a witch,  nor 
a fairy  or  elf,  of  whom  there  are  many  on  Black  Down.  No; 
it  was  a young  lady. 

This  strange  circumstance  naturally  set  the  villagers  a-talk- 
ing;  they  talked  about  it  at  the  inn,  whither  they  nightly 
repaired. 

In  ordinary  times  they  might  have  talked  about  it  to  their 
hearts’  content  and  no  harm  done,  but  in  these  times  talk  was 
dangerous.  In  every  little  village  there  are  one  or  two  whose 
wits  are  sharper  than  the  rest,  and  therefore  they  do  instigate 
whatever  mischief  is  done  in  that  village.  At  Corfe  the  cob- 
bler it  was  who  did  the  mischief.  For  he  sat  thinking  while 
the  others  talked,  and  he  presently  began  to  understand  that 
there  was  more  in  this  than  his  fellows  imagined.  He  knew 
the  hills;  there  were  no  wild  men  upon  them  who  would  rob 
and  murder  two  simple  village  boys.  Gypsies  there  were,  and 
broom-squires  sometimes,  and  hedge-tearers,  but  murderers  of 
boys — none.  And  who  was  the  young  lady?  Then  he  guessed 
the  whole  truth;  there  were  people  lying  hidden  in  the  coomb; 
if  people  hidden,  they  were  Monmouth’s  rebels!  A reward 
would  be  given  for  their  capture.  Fired  with  this  thought  he 
grasped  his  cudgel,  and  walked  off  to  the  village  of  Orchard 
Portman,  where,  as  he  had  heard,  there  was  a company  of 
grenadiers  sent  out  to  scour  the  country.  He  laid  his  infor- 
mation, and  received  the  promise  of  reward.  He  got  that  re- 
ward, in  short,  but  nothing  prospered  with  him  afterward. 
His  neighbors,  who  were  all  for  Monmouth,  learned  what  he 
had  done,  and  shunned  him.  He  grew  moody;  he  fell  into 
poverty,  who  had  been  a thriving  tradesman,  and  he  died  in  a 
ditch.  The  judgments  of  the  Lord  are  sometimes  swift  and 
sometimes  slow,  yet  they  are  always  sure.  'Who  can  forget 
the  dreadful  end  of  Tom  Boilman,  as  he  was  called,  the  only 
wretch  who  could  be  found  to  cut  up  the  limbs  of  the  hanged 
men  and  dip  them  in  the  cauldrons  of  pitch?  For  he  was 
struck  dead  by  lightning — an  awful  instance  of  the  wrath  of 
God. 

Early  next  morning,  about  five  of  the  clock,  I sat  before 
the  hut  in  the  shade,  llarnaby  was  up,  and  had  gone  to  look 
at  his  snares.  Suddenly  I heard  steps  below,  and  the  sound 
of  weapons  clashing  against  each  other.  Then  a man  came 
into  sight — a fellow  he  was  with  a leathern  aj>ron,  who  stood 
gazing  about  him.  There  was  no  time  for  me  to  hide,  because 
he  immediately  saw  me,  and  shouted  to  them  behind  to  come 


176 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


on  quickly.  Then  a dozen  soldiers,  all  armed,  ran  out  of  the 
wood  and  made  for  the  hut. 

“ Gentlemen,”  I cried,  running  to  meet  them,  “whom 
seek  you?” 

“ Who  are  you?”  asked  one,  who  seemed  to  be  a sergeant 
over  them.  “ Why  are  you  hiding?” 

Then  a thought  struck  me.  I know  not  if  I was  wise  or 
foolish. 

“ Sir,”  I replied,  “ my  father,  it  is  true,  was  with  the  Duke 
of  Monmouth.  But  he  was  wounded,  and  now  lies  dead  in 
this  hut.  You  will  suffer  us  to  bury  our  dead  in  peace.  ” 

“ Dead  is  he?  That  will  we  soon  see.” 

So  saying  he  entered  the  hut  and  looked  at  the  prostrate 
form.  He  lifted  one  hand  and  let  it  drop.  It  fell  like  the 
hand  of  one  who  is  recently  dead.  He  bent  over  the  body  and 
laid  his  hand  upon  the  forehead.  It  was  cold  as  death.  The 
lips  were  pale  as  wax,  and  the  cheeks  were  white.  He  opened 
an  eye;  there  was  no  expression  or  light  in  it. 

“ Humph!”  he  said.  “ He  seems  dead.  How  did  he  come 
here?” 

“ My  mother  and  I drove  him  here  for  safety  in  yonder  cart. 
The  pony  hath  run  away.  ” 

“ That  may  be  so — that  may  be  so.  He  is  dressed  in  a 
cassock.  What  is  his  name?” 

“ He  was  Doctor  Comfort  Eykin,  an  ejected  minister,  and 
preacher  in  the  duke’s  army.” 

“ A prize  if  he  had  been  alive.”  Then  a sudden  suspicion 
seized  him.  He  had  in  his  hand  a drawn  sword.  He  pointed 
it  at  the  breast  of  the  dead  man.  “ If  he  be  truly  dead,”  he 
said,  “ another  wound  will  do  him  no  harm.  Wherefore — ” 
He  made  as  if  he  would  drive  the  sword  through  my  father’s 
breast,  and  my  n^other  shrieked  and  threw  herself  across  the 
body. 

“ So!”  he  said,  with  a horrid  grin,  “ I find  that  he  is  not 
dead,  but  only  wounded.  My  lads,  here  is  one  of  Monmouth’s 
preachers,  but  he  is  sore  wounded.”  • 

“Oh!”  I cried,  “ for  the  love  of  God  suffer  him  to  die  in 
peace.” 

“Ay,  ay,  he  shall  die  in  peace;  I .promise  you  so  much. 
Meanwhile,  madame,  we  will  take  better  care  of  him  in 
Ilminster  jail  than  you  can  do  here.  The  air  is  raw  upon 
these  hills.  ’ ’ The  fellow  had  a glib  tongue  and  a mocking 
manner.  “ You  have  none  of  the  comforts  which  a wounded 
man  requires.  They  are  all  to  be  found  in  Ilminster  prison, 
whither  we  shall  carry  him.  There  will  he  have  nothing  to 


FOE  FAITH  AND  FKEEDOM.  J 77 

think  about,  with  everything  found  for  him.  Madame,  your 
father  will  be  well  bestowed  with  us. ” 

At  that  moment  I heard  the  footsteps  of  Barnaby  crunching 
among  the  brushwood. 

“Fly!  Barnaby,  fly!”  I shrieked.  “The  enemy  is  upon 
us.” 

He  did  not  fly.  He  came  running.  He  rushed  upon  the 
soldiers  and  hurled  this  man  one  way  and  that  man  another, 
swinging  his  long  arms  like  a pair  of  cudgels.  Had  he  had  a 
cudgel  I believe  he  would  have  sent  them  all  flying.  But  he 
had  nothing  except  his  arms  and  his  fists;  and  in  a minute  or 
two  the  soldiers  had  surrounded  him,  each  with  a bayonet 
pointed,  and  such  a look  in  every  man’s  eye  as  meant  murder 
had  Barnaby  moved. 

“ Surrender!”  said  the  sergeant. 

Barnalpy  looked  around  leisurely.  “Well,”  he  said,  “I 
suppose  I must.  As  for  my  name,  it  is  Barnaby  Eykin,  and 
for  my  rank,  I was  captain  in  the  Green  Regiment  of  the 
duke’s  valiant  army.” 

“ Stop!”  said  the  sergeant,  drawing  a paper  from  his 
pocket.  “ 4 Captain  Eykiii/  99  he  began  to  read,  “ ‘ has  been 
a sailor.  Rolls  in  his  walk;  height,  about  five  foot  five;  very 
broad  in  the  shoulders;  long  in  the  arms;  of  great  strength.’  ” 

“ That  is  so,”  said  Barnaby,  complacently. 

“ 6 Bandy  legs.’  ” 

“ Brother,”  said  Barnaby,  “ is  that  so  writ?” 

“ It  is  so,  captain.” 

“ I did  not  think,”  said  Barnaby,  “ that  the  malignity  of 
the  enemy  would  be  carried  so  far.  Bandy  legs!  Yet  you  see 
— well — Fall  in,  sergeant;  we  are  your  prisoners.  Bandy 

legs!” 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

How  can  I tell — oh!  how  can  I sit  down  to  tell  in  cold  blood 
the  story  of  all  that  followed?  Some  parts  of  it,  for  very  jiity, 
I must  pass  over.  All  that  has  been  told  or  written  of  the 
Bloody  Assize  is  most  true,  and  yet  not  half  that  happened 
can  be  told.  There  are  things,  I mean,  which  the  historian 
can  not,  for  the  sake  of  pity,  decency,  and  consideration  for 
living  people,  relate,  even  if  he  hath  seen  them.  You  who 
read  the  printed  page  may  learn  how  in  one  place  so  many 
were  hanged;  in  another  place  so  many;  how  some  were  hung 
in  gemmaces,  so  that  at  every  cross-road  there  was  a frightful 
gibbet  with  a dead  man  on  it;  how  some  died  of  small-pox  in 


178 


FOR  FAITH.  AND  FREEDOM. 


the  crowded  prisons,  and  some  of  fever;  and  how  Judge  Jef- 
freys rode  from  town  to  town  followed  by  gangs  of  miserable 
prisoners  driven  after  him  to  stand  their  trial  in  towns  where 
they  would  be  known;  how  the  wretched  sufferers  were  drawn 
and  quartered,  and  their  limbs  seethed  in  pitch  and  stuck  up 
over  the  whole  country;  how  the  women  and  boys  of  tender 
years  were  flogged  through  market  towns — you,  I say,  who 
read  these  things  on  the  cold  page,  presently  (even  if  you  be  a 
stickler  for  the  Right  Divine,  and  hold  rebellion  as  a mortal 
sin)  feel  your  blood  to  boil  with  righteous  wrath.  The  hand 
of  the  Lord  was  afterward  heavy  upon  those  who  ordered  these 
things;  nay,  at  the  very  time  (this  is  a most  remarkable  judg- 
ment) when  this  inhuman  judge  was  thundering  at  his  victims 
— so  that  some  went  mad  and  even  dropped  down  dead  with 
fear— he  was  himself,  as  Humphrey  hath  assured  me,  suffering 
the  most -horrible  pain  from  a dire  disease;  so  that  the  terrors 
of  his  voice  and  of  his  fiery  eyes  were  partly  due  to  the  agony 
of  his  disease,  and  he  was  enduring  all  through  that  Assize,  in 
his  own  body,  pangs  greater  than  any  that  he  ordered.  As  for 
his  miserable  end,  and  the  fate  that  overtook  his  master,  that 
we  know;  and  candid  souls  can  not  but  confess  that  here  were 
truly  judgments  of  God,  visible  for  all  to  see  and  acknowledge. 
But  no  j)en  can  truly  depict  what  the  eye  saw  and  the  ear 
heard  during  that  terrible  time.  And,  think  you,  if  it  was  a 
terrible  and  a wretched  time  for  those  who  had  no  relations 
among  the  rebels,  and  only  looked  on  and  saw  these  bloody 
executions  and  heard  the  lamentations  of  the  poor  women  who 
lost  their  lovers  or  their  husbands,  what  must  it  have  been  for 
me,  and  those  like  me,  whose  friends  and  all  whom  they  loved 
— yea,  all,  all — were  overwhelmed  in  one  common  ruin,  and 
expected  nothing  but  death? 

Our  own  misery  I can  not  truly  set  forth.  Sometimes  the 
memory  of  it  comes  back  to  me,  and  it  is  as  if  long  afterward 
one  should  feel  again  the  sharpness  of  the  surgeon’s  knife. 
Oh!  since  I must  write  down  what  happened,  let  me  be  brief. 
And  you  who  read  it,  if  you  find  the  words  cold  where  you 
would  have  looked  for  fire,  if  you  find  no  tears  where  there 
should  have  been  weeping  and  wailing,  remember  that  in  the 
mere  writing  have  been  shed  again  (but  these  you  can  not  see) 
tears  which  belonged  to  that  time,  and  in  the  writing  have 
been  renewed  (but  these  you  can  not  hear)  the  sobbings  and 
wailings  and  terrors  of  that  dreadful  autumn. 

The  soldiers  belonged  to  a company  of  grenadiers  of  Trelaw- 
ny’s  regiment,  stationed  at  Ilminster,  whither  they  carried  the 
prisoners.  First  they  handcuffed  Barnaby,  but  on  his  giving 


FOR  FAITH  AFTD  FREEDOM. 


179 


his  parole  not  to  escape,  they  let  him  go  free;  and  he  proved 
useful  in  the  handling  of  the  cart  on  which  my  unhappy  father 
lay.  And  though  the  soldiers*  talk  was  ribald,  their  jests  un- 
seemly, and  their  cursing  and  swearing  seemed  verily  to  invite 
the  wrath  of  God,  yet  they  proved  honest  fellows  in  the  main. 
They  offered  no  rudeness  to  us,  nor  did  they  object  to  our 
going  with  the  prisoners;  nay,  they  even  gave  us  bread  and 
meat  and  cider  from  their  own  provisions  when  they  halted  for 
dinner  at  noon.  Barnaby  walked  sometimes  with  the  soldiers, 
and  sometimes  with  us;  with  them  he  talked  freely,  as  if  he 
were  their  comrade  and  not  their  prisoner:  for  us  he  put  in  a 
word  of  encouragement  or  consolation  such  as,  “ Mother,  we 
shall  find  a way  out  of  this  coil  yet/*  or,  “ Sister/  we  shall 
cheat  Tom  Hangman;  look  not  so  gloomy  upon  it;**  or,  again, 
he  reminded  us  that  many  a shipwrecked  sailor  gets  safe 
ashore,  and  that  where  there  are  so  many  they  can  not  hang 
all.  “ Would  the  king,**  he  asked,  “ hang  up  the  whole  county 
of  Somerset?**  But  he  had  already  told  me  too  much.  In 
his  heart  I kr*£w  he  had  small  hope  of  escape;  yet  he  preserved 
his  cheerfulness,  and  walked  toward  his  prison  (to  outward 
seeming)  as  insensible  of  fear  and  with  as  unconcerned  a coun- 
tenance as  if  he  were  going  to  a banquet  or  a wedding.  This 
cheerfulness  of  his  was  due  to  happy  confidence  in  the  order- 
ing of  things  rather  than  to  insensibility.  A sailor  sees  men 
die  in  many  ways,  yet  himself  remains  alive.  This  gives  him 
something  of  the  disposition  of  the  Orientalist,  who  accepts  his 
fate  with  outward  unconcern,  whatever  it  may  be.  Perhaps 
(I  know  not)  there  may  have  been  in  his  mind  that  religious 
assurance  of  which  he  told  me.  Did  Barnaby  at  this  period, 
when  death  was  very  near  unto  him,  really  believe  that  there 
was  one  religion  for  landsmen  and  another  for  sailors?  oneway 
to  heaven  for  ministers,  another  for  seamen?  Indeed  I can 
not  tell;  yet  how  otherwise  account  for  his  courage  and  cheer- 
fulness at  all  times — even  in  the  very  presence  of  de£th? 

“ Brother,**  he  asked  the  sergeant,  “ we  have  been  lying  hid 
for  a fortnight,  and  have  heard  no  nows.  Tell  me  how  go  the 
hangings?** 

“ Why,  captain/*  the  fellow  replied,  with  a grin,  “in  this 
respect  there  is  little  for  the  rebels  to  complain  of.  They 
ought  to  be  satisfied,  so  far,  with  the  attentions  paid  to  them. 
Lord  Feversham  hanged  twenty  odd,  to  begin  with.  Captain 
Adlaw  and  three  others  are  trussed  up  in  chains  for  their  great 
honor;  and  in  order  to  put  the  rest  in  good  heart,  one  of  them 
ran  a race  with  a horse,  being  promised  his  life  if  he  should 
win.  When  he  had  beaten  the  horse  his  lordship,  who  was  a 


180 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


merry  man*  ordered  him  to  be  hanged  just  to  laugh  at  him. 
And  hanged  he  was.” 

“ Ay  ,”  said  Barnaby,  “ thus  do  the  Indians  in  America 
torture  their  prisoners  first  and  kill  them  afterward.” 

“ There  are  two  hundred  prisoners  lying  in  Weston  Zoyland 
church,”  the  sergeant  went  on.  “ They  would  have  been 
hanged  too,  but  the  bishop  interfered.  Now  they  are  waiting 
to  be  tried.  Lord!  what  signifies  trial,  except  to  give  them 
longer  rope?” 

“ Ay,  ay.  And  how  go  things  in  Bridgewater  and  Taun- 
ton?” 

“'From  Weston  to  Bridgewater  there  is  a line  of  gibbets 
already;  in  Taunton  twenty,..  I believe,  have  swung — twenty 
at  least.  The  drums  beat,  the  fifes  played,  and  the  trumpets 
sounded,  and  Colonel  Kirke  drank  to  the  health  of  every  man 
(such  was  his  condescension)  before  he  was  turned  off.  *Twould 
have  done  your  heart  good,  captain,  only  to  see  the  brave 
show.  ” 

“Ay,  ay,”  said  Barnaby;  “very  like,  very  like.  Perhaps 
I shall  have  the  opportunity  of  playing  first  part  in  another 
brave  show  if  all  goes  well.  Hath  the  duke  escaped?” 

We  heard  yesterday  that  he  is  taken  somewhere  near  the 
New  Forest.  So  that  he  will  before  long  lay  his  lovely  head 
upon  the  block.  Captain,  your  friends  have  brought  their  pigs 
to  a pretty  market.” 

“ They  have,  brother;  they  have,”  replied  Barnaby,  with 
unmoved  countenance.  “ Yet  many  a man  hath  recovered 
from  worse  straits  than  these.  ” 

I listened  with  sinking  heart.  Much  I longed  to  ask  if  the 
sergeant  knew  aught  of  Robin,  but  I refrained,  lest  merely  to 
name  him  might  put-  the  soldiers  on  the  look-out  for  him, 
should  he  happily  be  in  hiding. 

Next  the  sergeant  told  us  (which  terrified  me  greatly)  that 
there  was  "no  part  of  the  country  where  they  were  not  scour- 
ing for  fugitives;  that  they  were  greatly  assisted  by  the  clergy, 
who,  he  said,  were  red-hot  for  King  James;  that  the  men  were 
found  hiding,  as  we  had  hidden,  in  linneys,  in  hedges,  in  barns, 
in  woods;  that  they  were  captured  by  treachery — by  informa- 
tion laid,  and  even,  most  cruel  thing  of  all,  by  watching  and 
following  the  men’s  sweethearts  who  were  found  taking  food 
to  them.  He  said  also  that,  at  the  present  rate,  they  would 
have  to  enlarge  their  prisons  to  admit  ten  times  their  number, 
for  they  were  haling  into  them  not  only  the  men  who  had  fol- 
lowed Monmouth,  but  also  those  who  had  helped  him  with 
money,  arms,  or  men.  The  sergeant  was  a brutal  fellow,  yet 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


181 


there  was  about  him  something  of  good  nature  and  even  of 
compassion  for  the  men  he  had  captured.  Yet  he  seemed  to 
take  delight  in  speaking  of  the  sufferings  of  the  unfortunate 
prisoners.  The  soldiers,  he  told  us,  were  greatly  enraged  to- 
ward the  rebels — not,  I suppose,  on  account  of  their  rebellion, 
because  three  years  later  they  themselves  showed  how  skin- 
deep  was  their  loyalty,  but  because  the  rustics,  whom  they 
thought  contemptible,  had  surprised  and  nearly  beaten  them. 
And  this  roused  in  them  the  spirit  of  revenge. 

“ Captain,”  said  the  sergeant,  “ *tis  a pity  that  so  lusty  a 
gentleman  as  thou  shouldst  die.  Hast  thee  no  friends  at 
court?  Ho?  Nor  any  who  would  speak  for  thee?  ’Tis  pity. 
Yet  a man  can  die  but  once.  With  such  a neck  as  thine,  be- 
speak, if  so  much  grace  be  accorded  thee,  a long  rope  and  a 
high  gallows.  Else,  when  it  comes  to  the  quartering  ” — he 
stopped  and  shook  his  head — 6‘  but  there — I wish  you  well  out 
of  it,  captain.” 

In  the  evening,  just  before  sunset,  we  arrived  at  Ilminster, 
after  a sad  and  weary  march *bf  ten  miles  at  least;  but  we  could 
not  leave  the  prisoners  until  we  knew  how  and  where  they 
were  bestowed;  and  during  all  this  time  my  mother,  who  com- 
monly walked  not  abroad  from  one  Sabbath  to  the  next,  was 
possessed  with  such  a spirit  that  she  seemed  to  feel  no  weari- 
ness. When  we  rode  all  night,  in  order  to  join  the  duke,  she 
complained  not;  when  we  rode  painfully  across  to  Taunton, 
she  murmured  not;  nor  when  we  carried  our  wounded  man  up 
the  rough  and  steep  coomb;  no,  nor  on  this  day,  when  she 
walked  beside  her  husband’s  head,  careful  lest  the  motion  of 
the  cart  should  cause  him  pain.  But  he  felt  nothing,  poor 
soul!  He  would  feel  nothing  any  more. 

Ilminster  is  a goodly  town,  rich  and  prosperous  with  its  spin- 
ners and  weavers.  This  evening,  however,  there  was  no  one 
in  the  streets  except  the  troopers,  who  swaggered  up  and  down, 
or  sat  drinking  at  the  tavern  door.  There  is  a broad  open 
place  before  the  market,  which  stands  upon  great  stone  pillars. 
Outside  the  market  is  the  clink,  or  prison,  whither  the  soldiers 
were  taking  their  prisoners.  The  troopers  paid  not  the  least 
heed  to  our  mournful  little  procession — a wounded  man,  a 
prisoner  in  scarlet  and  lace,  but  the  cloth  tattered  and  stained 
and  the  lace  torn.  There  were  only  two  more  men  on  their 
way  to  death.  What  doth  a soldier  care  for  the  sight  of  a man 
about  to  die?” 

“ Mother,”  said  Barnaby,  when  we  drew  near  the  prison 
doors,  “ come  not  within  the  prison.  I will  do  all  that  I can 
for  him.  Go  now  and  find  a decent  lodging,  and,  sister,  mark 


182 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


ye,  the  lads  in  our  army  were  rough,  but  they  were  as  lambs 
compared  with  these  swaggering  troopers.  Keep  snug,  there- 
fore, and  venture  not  far  abroad.” 

I whispered  in  his  ear  that  I had  his  bag  of  money  safe,  so 
that  he  could  have  whatever  he  wanted  if  that  could  be  bought. 
Then  the  prison  doors  were  closed,  and  we  stood  without. 

It  would  have  been  hard  indeed  for  the  wife  and  daughter  of 
Dr.  Comfort  Eykin  not^to  find  a lodging  among  godly  people, 
of  whom  there  are  always  many  in  every  town  of  Somerset. 
We  presently  obtained  a room  in  the  house  of  one  Martha 
Prior,  widow  of  the  learned  and  pious  J oshha  Prior,  whilom 
preacher  and  ejected  minister.  Her  case  was  as  hard  as  our 
own.  This  poor  woman  had  two  sons  only,  and  both  had  gone 
to  join  the  duke:  one  already  risen  to  be  a serge-maker  and 
one  a draper,  of  the  town.  Of  her  sons  she  could  hear  no  news 
at  all,  whether  they  were  alive  or  dead.  If  they  were  already 
dead,  or  if  they  should  be  hanged,  she  would  have  no  means  of 
support,  and  so  must  starve  or  eat  the  bread  of  charity.  (I 
heard  afterward  that  she  never  did  hear  anything  of  them,  so 
that  it  is  certain  that  they  must  have  been  killed  on  the  bat- 
tle-field or  cut  down  by  the  dragoons  in  trying  to  escape.  But 
the  poor  soul  survived  not  long  their  loss. ) 

The  church  of  Ilminster  stands  upon  a rising  ground;  on 
the  north  is  the  grammar-school,  and  on  the  other  three  sides 
are  houses  of  the  better  sort,  of  which  Mrs.  Prior  had  one. 
The  place,  which  surrounds  the  church-yard,  and  hath  no  inn 
or  ale-house  in  it,  is  quiet  and  retired.  The  soldiers  came  not 
thither,  except  once  or  twice,  with  orders  to  search  the  houses 
(and  with  a private  resolution  to  drink  everything  that  they 
might  lay  their  hands  upon),  so  that  for  two  poor  women  in 
our  miserable  circumstances  we  could  not  have  a more  quiet 
lodging. 

Despite  our  troubles,  I slept  so  well  that  night  that  it  was 
past  seven  in  the  morning  when  I awoke.  The  needs  of  the 
body  do  sometimes  overcome  the  cares  of  the  spirit.  For  a 
whole  fortnight  had  we  been  making  our  beds  on  the  heather, 
and  therefore  without  taking  off  our  clothes,  and  that  day  we 
had  walked  ten  miles,  at  least,  with  the  soldiers,  so  that  I slept 
without  moving  or  waking  all  the  night.  In  the  morning  we 
dressed  quickly  and  hurried  to  the  jail,  not  knowing  whether 
I might  be  admitted  or  should  be  allowed  speech  of  Barnaby.' 
Outside  the  gate,  however,  I found  a crowd  of  people  going 
into  the  prison  and  coming  out  of  it.  Some  of  them,  women 
like  ourselves,  were  weeping — they  were  those  whose  brothers 
or  lovers,  husbands  or  sons,  were  in  those  gloomy  walls. 


FOR  FAITH  AND  FREEDOM. 


183 


Others  there  were  who  brought  for  such  of  the  prisoners  as 
had  money  to  buy  them,  eggs,  butter,  white  bread,  chickens, 
fruit,  and  all  kinds  of  provisions;  some  brought  wine,  cider, 
and  ale — some,  tobacco.  The  warders  who  stood  at  the  gates 
made  no  opposition  to  those  who  would  enter.  I pressed  in 
with  a beating  heart,  prepared  for  a scene  of  the  most  dreadful 
repentance  and  gloomy  forebodings.  What  I saw  was  quite 
otherwise. 

The  gates  of  the  prison  opened  upon  a court-yard,  not  very 
big,  where  the  people  were  selling  their  wares,  and  some  of  the 
prisoners  were  Walking  about,  and  some  wery  chaffering  with 
the  women  who  had  the  baskets.  On  the  right-hand  side  of 
the  yard  was  the  clink,  or  prison  itself;  on  the  left  hand  were 
houses  for  the  warders  or  officers  of  the  prison.  In  general  a 
single  warder,  constable,  or  headborough  is  enough  for  a town 
such  as  Ilminster,  to  keep  the  peace  of  the  prison,  which  is 
for  the  most  part  empty,  save  when  they  enforce  some  new  Act 
against  Non-conformists,  and  fill  it  with  them  or  with  Quakers. 
Now*  however,  so  great  was  the  press  that,  instead  of  two, 
there  were  a dozen  guards,  and  instead  of  a stout  cudgel,  they 
went  armed  with  pike  and  cutlass  to  keep  order  and  prevent 
escapes.  Six  of  them  occupied  the  gate-house;  other  six  were 
within,  in  a sort  of  guard-house,  where  they  slept  on  the  left 
hand  of  the  court. 

The  ground-floor  of  the  clink  we  found  to  be  a large  room, 
at  least  forty  feet  each  side  in  bigness.  On  one  side  of  it  was 
a great  fire-place,  where,  though  it  was  the  month  of  July, 
there  was  burning  a great  fire  of  Welsh  coal,  partly  for  cook- 
ing purposes,  because  all  that  the  prisoners  eat  was  cooked  at 
this  fire,  and  partly  because  a great  fire  kept  continually  burn- 
ing sweetens  the  air  and  wards  off  jail  fever.  On  another  side 
was  a long  table  and  several  benches.  Thick  wooden  pillars 
supported  the  joists  of  the  rooms  above;  the  windows  were 
heavily  barred,  but  the  shutters  were  down,  and  there  was  no 
glass  in  them.  In  spite  of  fire  and  open  windows  the  place 
was  stifling,  and  smelled  most  horrible.  Never  have  I breathed 
so  foul  an  air.  There  lived  in  this  room  about  eighty  prisoners 
(later  on  the  numbers  were  doubled);  some  were  smoking 
tobacco  and  drinking  cider  or  ale;  some  were  frying  pieces  of 
meat  over  the  fire;  and  the  tobacco,  the  ale,  the  wine,  the 
cooking,  and  the  people  themselves — nearly  all  country  lads, 
unwashed,  who  had  slept,  since  Sedgemoor,  at  least,  in  the 
same  clothes,  without  once  changing — made  such  an  air  that 
jail  fever,  putrid  throats,  and  small-pox  (which  afterward 
broke  out)  should  have  been  expected  sooner. 


184 


FOR  FAITH  AHD  FREEDOM. 


They  were  all  talking,  laughing,  and  even  singing,  so  that, 
in  addition  to  the  noisome  stench  of  the  place,  there  was  such 
a din  as  one  may  hear  at  Sherborne  Fair  of  an  evening.  I ex- 
pected, as  I have  said,  a gloomy  silence,  with  the  rattling  of 
chains,  the  groans  of  those  who  looked  for  death,  and  perhaps 
a godly  repentance  visible  upon  every  countenance.  Yet  they 
were  all  laughing,  except  a few  who  sat  retired,  and  who  were 
wounded.  1 say  that,  they  were  all  laughing.  They  had  noth- 
ing to  expect  but  death,  or  at  the  best  to  be  horribly  flogged, 
to  be  transported,  to  be  fined,  branded,  and  ruined.  Yet  they 
laughed!  What  means  the  hardness  and  indifference  of  men? 
Could  they  not  think  of  the  women  they  had  left  at  home?  I 
warrant  that  none  of  them  were  laughing. 

Among  them — a pipe  of  tobacco  in  his  lips  and  a mug  of 
strong  ale  before  him  on  the  table,  his  hat  flung  backward — 
sat  Barnaby,  his  face  showing,  apparently,  complete  satisfac- 
tion with  his  lot. 

When  he  saw  us  at  the  door  he  rose  and  came  to  meet  us. 

“ Welcome,'”  he  said.  “This  is  one  of  the  places  where 
King  Monmouth/ s men  are  to  receive  the  honor  due  to  them. 
Courage,  gentle  hearts.  Be  not  cast  down.  Everywhere  the 
prisons  are  full,  and  more  are  brought  in  every  day.  Our  very 
numbers  are  our  safety.  They  can  not  hang  us  all.  And, 
hark!**  here  he  whispered,  “ sister,  we  now  know  that  Colonel 
Kirke  hath  been  selling  pardons  at  ten  pounds,  twenty  pounds, 
and  thirty  pounds  apiece.  Wherefore  we  are  well  assured  that 
somehow  or  other  we  shall  be  able  to  buy  our  release.  There 
are  plenty  besides  Colonel  Kirke  who  will  sell  a prisoner  his 
freedom/* 

“ Where  is  your  father?**  asked  my  mother. 

“ He  is  bestowed  above,  where  it  is  quieter,  except  for  the 
groaning  of  the  wounded.  Go  upstairs  and  you  will  find  him. 
And  there  is  a surprise  for  you  besides.  You  will  find  with 
him  one  you  little  expect  to  see.** 

“ Oh,  Barnaby,  is  there  new  misery  for  me?  Is  Robin  a 
prisoner?** 

“ Robin  is  not  here,  sis,  and  as  for  misery,  why,  that  is  as 
you  take  it.  To  be  sure,  the  man  above  is  in  prison,  but  no 
harm  will  happen  him.  Why  should  it?  He  did  not  go  out 
with  Monmouth*s  men.  But  go  upstairs — go  upstairs — and 
see  for  yourselves.  ** 


EHD  OF  FTRST  HALF. 


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1 Yolande.  By  William  Black..  20 

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George  Eliot 20 

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Alexander 20 

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Wood.  1st  and  2d  half,  each  20 
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By  “ Ouida” 20 

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Charles  Dickens 20 

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Miss  Mulock.  2 parrs,  eaeh.  20 

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Emile  Gaboriau 20 

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Mathers 10 

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Duchess” 10 

15  Jane  Eyre.  By  Charlotte  Bront6  20 

16  Phyllis.  By  “The  Duchess”..  20 

17  Wooing  O’t,  The.  By  Mrs.  Alex- 

ander  20 

18  Shandon  Bells.  By  Wm.  Black  20 

19  Her  Mother’s  Sin.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

20  Within  an  Inch  of  His  Life. 

By  Emile  Gaboriau 20 

21  Sunrise : A Story  of  These  Times 

By  Wm.  Black 20 

22  David  Copperfield.  By  Charles 

Dickens.  Vol.  1 20 

22  David  Copperfield.  By  Charles 
Dickens.  Vol.  m 20 


23  Princess  of  Thule,  A.  By  Will- 

iam Black 20 

24  Pickwick  Papers.  By  Charles 

Dickens.  Vol.  1 20 

24  Pickwick  Papers.  By  Charles 

Dickens.  Vol.  II 20 

25  Mrs. Geoffrey.  “ The  Duchess.” 

(Large  type  edition) 20 

950  Mrs. Geoffrey.  “The Duchess”  10 

26  Monsieur  Lecoq.  By  Emile 

Gaboriau.  Vol.  1 20 

26  Monsieur  Lecoq.  By  Emile 

Gaboriau.  Vol.  II 20 

27  Vanity  Fair.  By  William  M. 

Thackeray.  Two  parts,  each  20 

28  Ivanhoe.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott.  20 

29  Beauty’s~Daughters.  By  “ The 


Duchess” 10 

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Duchess” . . 20 

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First  half 20 

31  Middlemarch.  By  George  Eliot. 

Second  half 20 

32  Land  Leaguers,  The.  By  An- 

thony Trollope 20 

33  Clique  of  Gold,  The.  By  Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

34  Dauiel  * Deronda.  By  George 

Eliot.  First  half 20 

34  Daniel  Deronda.  By  George 

Eliot.  Second  half 20 

35  Lady  Audley’s  Secret.  By  Miss 

M.  E.  Braddon 20 

36  Adam  Bede.  By  George  Eliot. 

In  Two  Parts,  each 20 


37  Nicholas  Nickleby.  By  Charles 
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38  Widow  Lerouge,  The.  By  Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

39  In  Silk  Attire.  By  William  Black  20 

40  Last  Days  of  Pompeii,  The.  By 

Bulwer  Lytton 20 

41  Oliver  Twist.  By  Chas.  Dickens  20 

42  Romola.  By  George  Eliot 20 

43  Mystery  of  Orcival,  The.  By 

Emile  Gaboriau. 20 

44  Macleod  of  Dare.  Wm.  Black.  20 

45  Little  Pilgrim,  A.  By  Mrs.  Oli- 

phant 10 

46  Very  Hard  Cash.  By  Charles 

Reade 20 

47  Altiora  Peto.  By  Laurence  Oli- 

phant 20 

48  Thicker  Than  Water.  By  James 

Payn 20 

49  That  Beautiful  Wretch.  By 

William  Black 20 

50  Strange  Adventures  of  a Phae- 

ton, The.  By  William  Black.  20 

51  Dora  Thorne.  By  Charlotte  M. 

Braeme 20 

52  New  Magdalen,  The.  By  Wilkie 

Collins 10 

53  Story  of  Ida,  The.  By  Francesca  10 

54  Broken  Wedding-Ring,  A.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 
of  “ Dora  Thorne  ” 20 

55  Three  Guardsmen,  The.  By 

Alexander  Dumas 20 

56  Phantom  Fortune.  By  Miss  M. 

E.  Braddon 20 

57  Shirley.  By  Charlotte  BrontA  20 

58  By  the  Gate  of  the  Sea.  By  D. 

Christie  Murraj^ 10 

59  Vice  Versa.  By  F.  Anstey 20 

60  Last  of  the  Mohicans,  The.  By 

J.  Fenimore  Cooper 20 

61  Charlotte  Temple.  By  Mrs. 

Rowson 10 

62  Executor,  The.  By  Mrs.  Alex- 

ander  20 

63  Spy,  The.  By  J.  Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

64  Maiden  Fair,  A.  Charles  Gibbon  10 

65  Back  to  the  Old  Home.  By 

Mary  Cecil  Hay 10 

66  Romance  of  a Poor  Voung  Man, 

The.  By  Octave  Feuillet 10 

67  Lorna  Doone.  By  R.  D.  Black- 

more.  First  half 20 

67  Lorna  Doone.  By  R.  D.  Black- 

more.  Second  half 20 

68  Queen  Amongst  Women,  A.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 
of  “Dora  Thorne” 10 

69  Madolin’s  Lover.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme,  author  of  “Dora 

Thorne” 20 

'70  White  Wings:  A Yachting  Ro- 
mance. By  William  Black  . . 10 

71  struggle  for  Fame,  A.  By  Mrs. 

J.  H.  Riddell 20 

72  Old  Myddelton’s  Money.  By 

Mary  Cecil  Hay 20 


73  Redeemed  by  Love;  or,  Love’s 


Victory.  By  Charlotte  M. 
Braeme,  author  of  “Dora 
Thorne”.*. 20 

74  Aurora  Floyd..  By  Miss  M.  E. 

Braddon 20 

75  Twenty  Years  After.  By  Alex- 

ander Dumas 20 

76  Wife  in  Name  Only;  or,  A Bro- 

ken Heart.  By  Charlotte  M. 
Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne  ” 20 

77  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  A.  By 

Charles  Dickens 20 

78  Madcap  Violet.  By  Wm.  Black  20 

79  Wedded  and  Parted.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“Dora  Thorne” 10 

80  June.  By  Mrs.  Forrester 

81  Daughter  of  Heth,  A.  By  Will- 

iam Black 

82  Sealed  Lips.  F.  Du  Boisgobey. 

83  Strange  Story,  A.  By  Sir  E. 

Bulwer  Lytton 20 

84  Hard  Times.  By  Chas.  Dickens  10 

85  Sea  Queen,  A.  By  W.  Clark 

Russell 20 

86  Belinda.  By  Rhoda  Broughton  20 

87  Dick  Sand;  or,  A Captain  at 

Fifteen.  By  Jules  Verne 20 

88  Privateersman,  The.  By  Cap- 

tain Marryat 20 

89  Red  Eric,  The.  By  R.  M.  Ballan- 

tyne 10 

90  Ernest  Maltravers.  By  SirE.Bul- 

wer  Lytton 20 

91  Barnaby  Rudge.  By  Charles 

Dickens.  First  half 20 

91  Barnaby  Rudge.  By  Charles 

Dickens.  Second  half 20 

92  Lord  Lynne’s  Choice.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“Dora  Thorne” 10 

93  Anthony  Trollope's  Autobiog- 

raphy  20 

94  Little  Dorrit.  By  Charles  Diok- 

ens.  First  half 20 

94  Little  Dorrit.  By  Charles  Dick- 

ens. Second  half 20 

95  Fire  Brigade,  The.  By  R.  M. 

Ballantyne 10 

96  Erling  the  Bold.  By  R.  M.  Bal- 

lantyne  10 

97  All  in  a Garden  Fair.  By  Wal- 

ter Besant 20 

98  Woman-Hater,  A.  By  Charles 

Reade 20 

99  Barbara’s  History.  By  Amelia 

B.  Edwards 20 

100  20,000  Leagues  Under  the  Seas. 

By  Jules  Verne 20 

101  Second  Thoughts.  By  Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

102  Moonstone,  The.  Wilkie  Collins  20 

103  Rose  Fleming.  By  Dora  Russell  10 

104  Coral  Pin,  The.  By  F.  Du  Bois- 

gobey. 1st  half 20 

104  Coral  Pin,  The.  By  F.  Du  Bois- 
gobey. half 20 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY— Pocket  Edition. 


3 


105  Noble  Wife,  A.  John  Saunders  30 

106  .Bleak  House.  By  Charles  Dick- 

ens. First  half 20 

1®6  Bleak  House.  By  Charles  Dick- 
ens. Second  half 20 

107  Dombey  and  Son.  By  Charles 

Dickens.  First  half 20 

107  Dombey  and  Son.  By  Charles 

Dickens.  Second  half 20 

108  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  The. 

By  Charles  Dickens 10 

108  Doctor  Marigold.  By  Charles 

Dickens 10 

109  Little  Loo.  By  W.  Clark  Russell  20 

110  Under  the  Red  Flag.  By  Miss 

M.  E.  Braddon 10 

111  Little  School-master  Mark,  The. 

By  J.  H.  Sliorthouse 10 

112  Waters  of  Marah,  The.  By  John 

Hill 20 

113  Mrs.  Carr’s  Companion.  By  M. 

G.  Wightwick 10 

114  Some  of  Our  Girls.  By  Mrs.  C. 

J.  Eiloart 20 

115  Diamond  Cut  Diamond.  By  T. 

Adolphus  Trollope 10 

116  Moths.  By  “Ouida” 20 


117  Tale  of  the  Shore  and  Ocean,  A. 

By  William  H.  G.  Kingston..  20 

118  Loys,  Lord  Berresford,  and 

Eric  Dering.  “ The  Duchess  ” 10 

119  Monica,  and  A Rose  Distill’d. 


By  “The  Duchess” 10 

120  Tom  Brown’s  School  Days  at 

Rugby.  By  Thomas  Hughes.  20 

121  Maid  of  Athens.  By  Justin 

McCarthy 20 

122  lone  Stewart.  By  Mrs.  E.  Lynn 

Linton 20 

123  Sweet  is  True  Love.  By  “ The 

Duchess  ” . 10 

124  Three  Feathers.  By  Wm.  Black  20' 

125  Monarch  of  Mincing  Lane,  The. 

By  William  Black 20 

126  Kilmeny.  By  William  Black. . 20 

127  Adrian  Bright.  By  Mrs.  Caddy  20 

128  Afternoon,  and  Other  Sketches. 

By  “ Ouida  ” 10 


129  Rossmoyne.  By  “The  Duchess”  10 

130  Last  of  the  Barons,  The,  By  Sir 

E.  Bulwer  Lytton.  1st  half..  20 

130  Last  of  the  Barons,  The.  By  Sir 

E.  Bulwer  Lytton.  2d  half..  20 

131  Our  Mutual  Friend.  By  Charles 


Dickens.  First  half 20 

131  Our  Mutual  Friend.  By  Charles 

Dickens.  Second  half 20 

132  Master  Humphrey’s  Clock.  By 

Charles  Dickens 10 

133  Peter  the  Whaler.  By  William 

H.  G.  Kingston 10 


134  Witching  Hour,  The,  and  Other 

Stories.  By  “ The  Duchess  ” . 10 

135  Great  Heiress,  A : A Fortune  in 

Seven  Checks.  By  R.  E.  Fran- 

cillon 10 

ISC  “That  Last  Rehearsal,”  and 
Other  Stcries.  By  “ The 
Duchess” 10 


137  Uncle  Jack.  By  Walter  Besant  10 

138  Green  Pastures  and  Piccadilly. 

By  Wm.  Black 20 

139  Romantic  Adventures  of  a Milk- 

maid, The.  By  Thomas  Hardy  10 

140  Glorious  Fortune,  A.  By  Wal- 

ter Besant 10 

141  She  Loved  Him!  By  Annie 

Thomas 10 

142  Jenifer.  By  Annie  Thomas 20 

143  One  False,  Both  Fair.  By  John 

B.  Harwood 20 

144  Promises  of  Marriage.  By  Emile 

Gaboriau 10 


145  “ Storm-Beaten God  and  The 

Man.  By  Robert  Buchanan.  20 

146  Love  Finds  the  Way,  and  Other 

Stories.  By  Walter  Besant 


and  James  Rice 10 

147  Rachel  Ray.  By  Anthony  Troll- 

ope  20 

148  Thorns  and  Orange-Blossoms. 

By  Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  au- 
thor of  “Dora  Thorne” 10 

149  Captain’s  Daughter,  The.  From 

the  Russian  of  Pushkin 10 

150  For  Himself  Alone.  By  T.  W. 

Speight 10 

151  Ducie  Diamonds.  The.  By  C. 

Blatherwick 10 

152  Uncommercial  Traveler,  The. 

By  Charles  Dickens 20 

153  Golden  Calf,  The.  By  Miss  M. 

E.  Braddon 20 

154  Annan  Water.  By  Robert  Buch- 

anan  20 

155  Lady  Muriel’s  Secret.  By  Jean 

Middlemas 20 

156  “Fora  Dream’s  Sake.”  By  Mrs. 

Herbert  Martin 20 

157  Milly’s  Hero.  By  F.  W.  Robinson  20 

158  Starling,  The.  By  Norman 

Macleod,  D.D 10 

159  Captain  Norton’s  Diary,  and 

A Moment  of  Madness.  By 
Florence  Marryat 10 

160  Her  Gentle  Deeds.  By  Sarah 

Tytler 10 

161  Lady  of  Lyons,  The.  Founded 

on  the  Play  of  that  title  by 
Lord  Lytton 10 

162  Eugene  Aram.  By  Sir  E.  Bulwer 

Lytton 20 

163  Winifred  Power.  By  Joj^ce  Dar- 

rell   20 

164  Leila ; or.  The  Siege  of  Grenada. 

By  Bulwer  Lytton 10 

165  History  of  Henry  Esmond,  The. 

By  William  J\i.  Thackeray. . . 30 

166  Moonshine  and  Marguerites. 

By  “The  Duchess” 10 

167  Heart  and  Science.  By  Wilkie 

Collins 20 

168  No  Thoroughfare.  By  Dickens 

and  Collins 10 

169  Haunted  Man,  The.  By  Charles 

Dickens 10 

170  A Great  Treason.  By  Mary 

Hoppus.  First  half.. .20 


4 THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY —Pocket  Edition. 


170  A Great  Treason.  By  Mary 

Hoppus.  Second  half 

171  Fortune’s  Wheel.  By  “The 

Duchess  ” 

172  “ Golden  Girls.”  By  Alan  Muir 

173  Foreigners,  The.  By  Eleanor  C. 

Price 

174  Under  a Ban.  By  Mrs.  Lodge. 

175  Love’s  Random  Shot.  By  Wilkie 

Collins 

176  An  April  Day.  By  Philippa  Prit- 

tie  Jephson 

177  Salem  Chapel.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant 

178  More  Leaves  from  the  Journal 

of  a Life  in  the  Highlands. 
By  Queen  Victoria 

179  Little  Make-Believe.  By  B.  L. 

Far  jeon 

180  Round  the  Galley  Fire.  By  W. 

Clark  Russell 

181  New  Abelard,  The.  By  Robert 

Buchanan T 

182  Millionaire,  The 

183  Old  Contrairy,  and  Other  Sto- 

ries. By  Florence  Marryat . . 

184  Thirlby  Hall.  By  W.  E.  Norris 

185  Dita.  By  Lady  Margaret  Ma- 

jendie 

186  Canon’s  Ward,  The.  By  James 

Payn 

187  Midnight  Sun,  The.  ByFredrika 

Bremer 

188  Idonea.  By  Anne  Beale 

189  Valerie’s  Fate.  By  Mrs.  Alex- 

ander   

190  Romance  of  a Black  Veil.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 
ot  “Dora  Thorne” 

191  Harry  Lorrequer.  By  Charles 

Lever 

192  At  the  World’s  Mercy.  By  F. 

Warden 

193  Rosery  Folk,  The.  By  G.  Man- 

ville  Fenn 

194  “So  Near,  and  Yet  So  Far!” 

By  Alison 

195  “ Way  of  the  World,  The.”  By 

David  Christie  Murray 

196  Hidden  Perils.  Mary  Cecil  FT ay 

197  For  Her  Dear  Sake.  By  Mary 

Cecil  Hay 

198  Husband’s  Story,  A 

199  Fisher  Village,  The.  By  Anne 

200  An  Old  Man’s  Love.  By  Anthony 

Trollope 

201  Monastery,  The.  By  Sir  Walter 

Scott 

202  Abbot,  The.  Sequel  to  “ The 

Monastery.”  By  Sir  Walter 
Scott 

203  John  Bull  and  His  Island.  By 

Max  O’Rell.  

204  Vixen.  By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon 

205  Minister’s  Wife,  The.  By  Mrs. 

Oliphant.. 

206  Picture,  The,  and  Jack  of  All 

Trades.  By  Charles  Reade. . . 


207  Pretty  Miss  Neville.  By  B.  M. 

Croker 20 

208  Ghost  of  Charlotte  Cray,  The, 

and  Other  Stories.  By  Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

209  John  Holdsworth,  Chief  Mate. 

By  W.  Clark  Rus*sell 10 

210  Readiana:  Comments  on  Cur- 

rent Events.  By  Chas.  Reade  10 

211  Octoroon,  The.  By  Miss  M.  E. 

Braddon 10 

212  Charles  O’Malley,  the  Irish 

Dragoon.  By  Charles  Lever. 
First  half 20 

212  Charles  O’Malley,  the  Irish 

Dragoon.  By  Charles  Lever. 
Second  half 20 

213  Terrible  Temptation,  A.  By 

Chas.  Reade ".  20 

214  Put  Yourself  in  His  Place.  By 

Charles  Reade \ 20 

215  Not  Like  Other  Girls.  By  Rosa 

Nouchette  Carey 

216  Foul  Play.  By  Charles  Reade. 


217  Man  She  Cared  For,  The.  By 

F.  W.  Robinson 

218  Agnes  Sorel.  By  G.  P.  R.  James 

219  Lady  Clare ; or.  The  Master  of 

the  Forges.  From  the  French 
of  Georges  Oh  net 

220  Which  Loved  Him  Best?  By 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 
of  “ Dora  Thorne  ” 

221  Cornin’ Thro’ the  Rye.  By  Helen 

B.  Mathers 

222  Sun-Maid,  The.  By  Miss  Grant 

223  Sailor’s  Sweetheart,  A.  By  W. 

Clark  Russell 

224  Arundel  Motto,  The.  By  Mary 

Cecil  Hay 

225  Giant’s  Robe,  The.  By  F.  Anstey 

226  Friendship.  By  “Ouida” 

227  Nancy.  By  Rhoda  Broughton . 

228  Princess  Napraxine.  “Ouida” 

229  Maid,  Wife,  or  Widow?  By 

Mrs.  Alexander — 

230  Dorothy  Forster.  By  Walter 

Besant 

231  Griffith  Gaunt;  or,  Jealousy. 

By  Charles  Reade 

232  Love  and  Money;  or,  A Peril- 

ous Secret.  By  Chas.  Reade. 

233  “ I Say  No;”  or,  The«Love-Let- 

ter  Answered.  By  Wilkie  Col- 
lins  

234  Barbara;  or,  Splendid  Misery. 

By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon 

235  “ It  is  Neyer  Too  Late  tomend.  ” 

By  Charles  Reade 

236  Which  Shall  It  Be?  By  Mrs. 

Alexander 

237  Repented  at  Leisure.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“Dora  Thorne” 

238  Pascarel.  By  “Ouida” 

239  Signa..  By  “Ouida” 

240  Called  Back.  By  Hugh  Conway 

241  Baby’s  Grandmother,  The.  By 

U B.  Walford 10 


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242  Two  Orphans,  The.  By  D’En- 

nery ^ 

243  Tom  Burke  of  “Ours.”  By 

Charles  Lever.  First  half... 

243  Tom  Burke  of  “Ours.”  By 

Charles  Lever.  Second  half. 

244  Great  Mistake,  A.  By  the  author 

of  “ Cherry  ” 

245  Miss  Tommy.  By  Miss  Mulock 

246  Fatal  Dower,  A.  By  the  Author 

of  “His  Wedded  Wife” 

247  Armourer’s  Prentices,  The.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Yonge 

248  House  on  the  Marsh,  The.  By 

F.  Warden 

249  “ Prince  Charlie’s  Daughter.” 

By  Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  au- 
thor of  “ Dora  Thorne  ” 

250  Sunshine  and  Roses ; or,  Diana’s 

Discipline.  By  Charlotte  M. 
Braeme,  author  of  “Dora 
Thorne  ” 

251  Daughter  of  the  Stars,  The,  and 

Other  Tales.  By  Hugh  Con- 
way, author  of  “ Called 
Back  ” 

252  Sinless  Secret,  A.  By  “ Rita  ” 

253  Amazon,  The.  By  Carl  Vosmaer 

254  Wife’s  Secret,  The,  and  Fair  but 

False.  Charlotte  M.  Braeme, 
author  of  “ Dora  Thorne  ”... 

255  Mystery,  The.  By  Mrs.  Henry 

Wood 

256  Mr.  Smith : A Part  of  His  Life. 

ByL.  B.  Walford 

257  Beyond  Recall.  By  Adeline  Ser- 

geant  

258  Cousins.  ByL.  B.  Walford 

259  Bride  of  Monte- Cristo,  The.  A 

Sequel  to  “ The  Count  of 
Monte-Cristo.”  By  Alexan- 
der Dumas 

260  Proper  Pride.  By  B.  M.  Croker 

261  Fair  Maid,  A.  By  F.  W.  Robin- 

son   

262  Count  of  Monte-Cristo,  The. 

By  Alexander  Dumas.  Part  I 

262  Count  of  Monte-Cristo,  The. 

By  Alexander  Dumas.  Part  II 

263  An  Ishmaelite.  By  Miss  M.  E. 

Braddon 

264  Pi6douche,  a French  Detective. 

By  Fortune  Du  Boisgobey . . . 

265  Judith  Shakespeare:  Her  Love 

Affairs  and  Other  Advent- 
ures. By  William  Black 

266  Water-Babies,  The.  A Fairy 

Tale  for  a Land-Baby.  By  the 

Rev.  Charles  Kingsley 

207  Laurel  Vane;  or,  The  Girls’ 
Conspiracy.  By  Mrs.  Alex. 
McVeigh  Miller 

268  Lady  Gay’s  Pride ; or.  The  Mi- 

ser’s Treasure.  By  Mrs.  Alex. 
McVeigh  Miller 

269  Lancaster's  Choice.  By  Mrs. 

Alex.  McVeigh  Miller 

270  Wandering  Jew,  The.  By  Eu- 

gene Sue.  Part  1 


270  Wandering  Jew,  The.  By  Eu- 

gene Sue.  Part  II 30 

271  Mysteries  of  Paris,  The.  By  Eu- 

gene Sue.  Part  I . . 30 

271  Mysteries  of  Paris,  The.  By  Eu- 

gene Sue.  Part  II 30 

272  Little  Savage,  The.  By  Captain 

Marryat 10 

273  Love  and  Mirage ; or,  The  Wait- 

ing on  an  Island.  By  M. 
Betham-Ed  wards 10 

274  Alice,  Grand  Duchess  of  Hesse, 

Princess  of  Great  Britain  and 
Ireland.  Biographical  Sketch 
and  Letters 10 

275  Three  Brides,  The.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Yonge 10 

276  Under  the  Lilies  and  Roses. 

By  Florence  Marryat  (Mrs. 
Francis  Lean) 10 

277  Surgeon’s  Daughters,  The,  by 


Mrs.  Henry  Wood.  A Man  of 
His  Word,  by  W.  E.  Norris. . . 10 

278  For  Life  and  Love.  By  Alison.  10 

279  Rattlin,  the  Reefer.  By  Captain 


Marryat 20 

280  Omnia  Vanitas.  A Tale  of  So- 

ciety. By  Mrs.  Forrester 10 

281  Squire’s  Legacy,  The.  By  Mary 

Cecil  Hay 20 

282  Donal  Grant.  By  George  Mac- 

Donald   1 20 

263  Sin  of  a Lifetime,  The.  By 
Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 
of  “ Dora  Thorne  ” 10 

284  Doris.  By  “ The  Duchess  ” — 10 

285  Gambler’s  Wife,  The 20 

286  Deldee;  or.  The  Iron  Hand.  By 

F.  Warden 20 

267  At  War  With  Herself.  By  Char- 
lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 

“Dora  Thorne” 10 

923  At  War  With  Herself.  By  Char- 
lotte M.  Braeme.  (Large  type 
edition) 20 

288  From  Gloom  to  Sunlight;  or 

From  Out  the  Gloom.  By 
Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 

of  “ Dora  Thorne  ” 10 

955  From  Gloom  to  Sunlight;  or. 
From  Out  the  Gloom.  By 
Charlotte  M.  Braeme.  (Large 
type  edition) 20 

289  John  Bull’s  Neighbor  in  Her 

True  Light.  By  a “Brutal 
Saxon  ” 10 

290  Nora’s  Love  Test.  By  Maty 

Cecil  Hay 20 

291  Love’s  Warfare.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne  ” 10 

292  Golden  Heart,  A.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme,  author  of  “Dora 
Thorne”. 10 

293  Shadow  of  a Sin,  The.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“Dora  Thorne” 10 


10 

20 

20 

20 

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20 

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THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY— Pocket  Edition. 


948  Shadow  of  a Sin,  The.  By  Char- 
lotte M.  Braeme.  (Large  type 

edition) 20 

294  Hilda;  or,  The  False  Yow.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme 10 

294  Lady  Hutton’s  Ward.  By  Char- 
lotte M.  Braeme 10 

928  Hilda;  or.  The  False  Vow.  By 
Charlotte  M.  Braeme.  (Large 


lotte  M.  Braeme.  (Large  type)  20 

295  Woman’s  War,  A.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme 10 

952  Woman’s  War,  A.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme.  (Large  type 
edition) 20 

296  Rose  in  Thorns,  A.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“Dora  Thorne”., 10 

297  Hilary’s  Folly;  or,  Her  Mar- 

riage Yow.  By  Charlotte  M. 
Braeme,  author  of  “Dora 
Thorne” 10 

953  Hilary’s  Folly;  or.  Her  Mar- 
' riage  Vow.  By  Charlotte  M. 

Braeme.  (Large  type  edition)  20 

298  Mitchelhurst  Place.  By  Marga- 

ret Veley 10 

299  Fatal  Lilies,  The.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne”  10 

300  A Gilded  Sin,  and  A Bridge  of 

Love.  By  Charlotte  M. 
Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne  ” 10 

301  Dark  Days.  By  Hugh  Conway  10 

302  Blatchford  Bequest,  The.  By 

Hugh  Conway,  author  of 
“Called  Back” 10 

303  Ingledew  House.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thome” 10 

304  In  Cupid’s  Net.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne  ” 10 

305  Dead  Heart,  A.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne”.... 10 

306  Golden  Dawn,  A.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme,  author  of  “Dora 
Thorne” 10 

307  Two  Kisses.  By  Charlotte  M. 

Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

308  Beyond  Pardon.  C.  M.  Braeme  20 

309  Pathfinder,  The.  By  J.  Feni- 

more  Cooper 20 

310  Prairie,  The.  By  J.  Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

311  Two  Years  Before  the  Mast. 

By  R.  H.  Dana,  Jr 20 

312  Week  in  Killarney,  A.  By  “ The 

Duchess” 10 

313  Lover’s  Creed,  The.  By  Mrs. 

Cashel-Hoey 20 

314  Peril.  By  Jessie  Fotliergill  ...  20 
815  Mistletoe  Bough,  The.  Edited 

by  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon 20 


316  Sworn  to  Silence;  or,  Aline 

Rodney’s  Secret.  By  Mrs. 
Alex.  McVeigh  Miller 20 

317  By  Mead  and  Stream.  By  Chas. 

Gibbon 20 

318  Pioneers,  The ; or,  The  Sources 

of  the  Susquehanna.  By  J. 
Fenimore  Cooper 20 

319  Face  to  Face : A Fact  in  Seven 

Fables.  By  R.  E.  Franeillon.  10 

320  Bit  of  Human  Nature,  A.  By 

David  Christie  Murray 10 

321  Prodigals,  The:  And  Their  In- 

heritance. By  Mrs.  Oliphant.  10 

322  Woman’s  Love-Story,  A.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 
of  “ Dora  Thorne  ” 10 

323  Willful  Maid,  A.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne”. 20 

324  In  Luck  at  Last.  By  Walter 

Besant 10 

~325  Portent,  The.  By  George  Mac- 
donald  10 

326  Phantastes.  A Faerie  Romance 

for  Men  and  Women.  By 
George  Macdonald 10 

327  Raymond’s  Atonement.  (From 

the  German  of  E.  Werner.) 

By  Christina  Tyrrell 20 

328  Babiole,  the  Pretty  Milliner. 

(Translated  from  the  French 
of  Fortune  Du  Boisgobey.) 

First  half 20 

828  Babiole,  the  Pretty  Milliner. 
(Translated  from  the  French 
of  Fortune  Du  Boisgobey.) 

Second  half 20 

229  Polish  Jew,  The.  (Translated 
from  the  French  by  Caroline 
A.  Merighi.)  By  Erckmann- 
Chatrian 10 

330  May  Blossom ; or,  Between  Two 

Loves.  By  Margaret  Lee 20 

331  Gerald.  By  Eleanor  C.  Price..  20 

332  Judith  Wynne.  By  author  of 

“ Lady  Lovelace  ” 20 


333  Frank  Fairlegh : or,  Scenes 

From  the  Life  of  a Private 
Pupil.  By  Frank  E.  Smedley  20 

334  Marriage  of  Convenience,  A. 


By  Harriett  Jay 10 

335  White  Witch,  The.  A Novel. . . 20 

336  Philistia.  By  Cecil  Power 20 


337  Memoirs  and  Resolutions  of 

Adam  Graeme  of  Mossgray, 
including  some  Chronicles  of 
the  Borough  of  Fendie.  By 
Mrs.  Oliphant 20 

338  Family  Difficulty,  The.  By  Sa- 

rah Doudney 10 

339  Mrs.  Vereker’s  Courier  Maid. 

By  Mrs.  Alexander 10 

340  Under  Which  King?  By  Comp- 

ton Reade 20 

341  Madolin  Rivers;  or,  The  Little 

Beauty  of  Red  Oak  Seminary. 

By  Laura  Jean  Libbey 20 

342  Baby,  The.  By  “ The  Duchess  ” 10 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY— Pocket  Edition. 


7 


843  Talk  of  the  Town,  The.  By 
James  Payn 30 

344  “Wearing  of  the  Green,  The.” 

By  Basil 20 

345  Madam.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant 20 

346  Tumbledown  Farm.  By  Alan 

Muir 10 

347  As  Avon  Flows.  By  Henry  Scott 

Vince 20 

348  From  Pdst  to  Finish.  A Racing 

Romance.  By  Hawley  Smart  20 

349  Two  Admirals,  The.  A Tale  of 


the  Sea.  By  j.  Fenimore 
Cooper  20 

350  Diana  of  the  Crossways.  By 

George  Meredith 10 

351  House  on  the  Moor,  The.  By 

Mrs.  Oliphant 20 

352  At  Any  Cost.  By  Edw.  Garrett  10 

353  Black  Dwarf,  The.  By  Sir 

Walter  Scott 20 

354  Lottery  of  Life,  The.  A Story 

of  New  York  Twenty  Years 
Ago.  By  John  Brougham. . . 20 

355  That  Terrible  Man.  By  W.  E. 

Norris 10 

356  Good  Hater,  A.  By  Frederick 

Boyle 20 

357  John.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant 20 

358  Within  the  Clasp.  By  J.  Ber- 

wick Harwood 20 

359  Water-Witch,  The.  By  J.  Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

360  Ropes  of  Sand.  By  R.  E.  Francil- 

lon 20 

361  Red  Rover,  The.  A Tale  of  the 

Sea.  By  J.  Fenimore  Cooper  20 

362  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  The. 

By  Sir  Walter  Scott 20 

363  Surgeon’s  Daughter,  The.  By 

Sir  Walter  Scott 10 

364  Castle  Dangerous.  By  Sir  Wal- 

ter Scott 10 

365  George  Christy;  or,  The  Fort- 

unes of  a Minstrel.  By  Tony 
Pastor 20 

366  Mysterious  Hunter,  The;  or, 

The  Man  of  Death.  By  Capt. 

L.  C.  Carleton 20 

367  Tie  and  Trick.  By  Hawley  Smart  20 

368  Southern  Star,  The ; or,  The  Dia- 

mond Land.  By  Jules  Verne  20 

369  Miss  Bretherton.  By  Mrs.  Hum- 

phry Ward 10 

370  LucyCrofton.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant  10 

371  Margaret  Maitland.  By  Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

372  Phyllis’  Probation.  By  the  au- 

thor of  “ His  Wedded  Wife  ”.  10 

373  Wing-and-Wing.  By  J.  Feni- 

more Cooper. 20 

874  Dead  Man’s  Secret,  The ; or,  Tho 
Adventures  of  a Medical  Stu- 
dent. By  Dr.  Jupiter  Paeon. . 20 
375  Ride  to  Khiva,  A.  By  Captain 
Fred  Burnaby,  of  the  Royal 
Horse  Guards.^ 20 


876  Crime  of  Christmas  Day,  The. 

By  the  author  of  “ My  Ducats 
and  My  Daughter  ” 10 

377  Magdalen  Hepburn ; A Story  of 

the  Scottish  Reformation.  By 
Mrs.  Oliphaut. 20 

378  Homeward  Bound;  or,  The 

Chase.  By  J.  F.  Cooper 20 

379  Home  as  Found.  (Sequel  to 

“ Homeward  Bound.”)  By  J. 
Fenimore  Cooper 20 

380  Wyandotte;  or,  The  Hutted 

Knoll.  By  J.  Fenimore  Cooper  20 

381  Red  Cardinal,  The.  By  Frances 

Elliot 10 

382  Three  Sisters ;'  or,  Sketches  of 

a Highly  Original  Family. 

By  Elsa  D’Esterre-Keeling. . . 10 

383  In  traduced  to  Society.  By  Ham- 

ilton Aide  10 

384  On  Horseback  Through  Asia 

Minor.  By  Captain  Fred  Bur- 
naby  20 

385  Headsman,  The;  or,  The  Ab- 

baye  des  Vignerons.  By  J. 
Fenimore  Cooper 20 

386  Led  Astray;  or,  “La  Petite 

Comtesse.”  Octave  Feuillet.  10 

387  Secret  of  the  Cliffs,  The.  By 

Charlotte  French 20 

388  Addie’s  Husband ; or,  Through 

Clouds  to  Sunshine.  By  the 
author  of  “ Love  or  Lands?”.  10 

389  Ichabod.  A Portrait.  By  Bertha 

Thomas 10 

390  Mildred  Trevanion.  By  “ The 

Duchess  ” 10 

391  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian,  The.  By 

Sir  Walter  Scott 20 

392  Peveril  of  the  Peak.  By  Sir 

Walter  Scott 20 

393  Pirate,  The.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott  20 

394  Bravo,  The.  By  J.  Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

395  Archipelago  on  Fire,  The.  By 

Jules  Verne 10 

396  Robert  Ord’s  Atonement.  By 

Rosa  Nouchette  Carey 20 

397  Lionel  Lincoln ; or,  The  Leaguer 

of  Boston.  By  J.  Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

398  Matt:  A Tale  of  a Caravan. 

By  Robert  Buchanan 10 

399  Miss  Brown.  By  Vernon  Lee. . 20 

400  Wept  of  Wish-Ton -Wish,  The. 

By  J.  Fenimore  Cooper 20 

401  Waverley.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott  20 

402  Lilliesleaf;  or,  Passages  in  the 

Life  of  Mrs.  Margaret  Mait- 
land of  Sunnyside.  By  Mrs. 
Oliphant 20 

403  An  English  Squire.  By  C.  R. 

Coleridge t 20 

404  In  Durance  Vile,’  and  Other 

Stories.  By  “ The  Duchess  ” 10 

405  My  Friends  and  I.  Edited  by 

Julian  Sturgis 10 

406  Merchant’s  Clerk,  The.  By  Sam- 

uel Warren 10 


8 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBBABY— Pocket  Edition. 


407  Tylney  Hall.  By  Thomas  Hood  20 

408  Lester’s  Secret.  By  Mary  Cecil 

Hay.... 20 

409  Roy’s  Wife.  By  G.  J.  Whyte- 

Melville 20 

410  Old  Lady  Mary.  By  Mrs.  Oli- 

phant 10 

411  Bitter  Atonement,  A.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“ Dora  Thorne  ” 20 

412  Some  One  Else.  By  B.  M.  Croker  20 

413  Afloat  and  Ashore.  By  J.  Fen- 

imore Cooper 20 

414  Miles  Wallingford.  (Sequel  to 

“ Afloat  and  Ashore.”)  By  J. 
Fenimore  Cooper 20 

415  Ways  of  the  Hour,  The.  By  J. 

Fenimore  Cooper 20 

416  Jack  Tier;  or,  The  Florida  Reef. 

By  J.  Fenimore  Cooper. 20 

417  Fair  Maid  of  Perth,  The;  or, 

St.  Valentine’s  Day.  By  Sir 
Walter  Scott 20 

418  St.  Ronan’s  Well.  By  Sir  Walter 

Scott 20 

419  Chainbearer,  The;  or,  The  Lit- 

tlepage  Manuscripts.  By  J. 
Fenimore  Cooper 20 

420  Satanstoe;  or,  The  Littlepage 

Manuscripts.  By  J.  Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

421  Redskins,  The;  or,  Indian  and 

In  jin.  Being  the  conclusion 
of  the  Littlepage  Manuscripts. 

By  J.  Fenimore  Cooper. . ....  20 

422  Precaution.  By  J.  Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

423  Sea  Lions,  The;  or,  The  Lost 

Sealers.  By  J.  F.  Cooper 20 

424  Mercedes  of  Castile;  or,  The 

Voyage  to  Cathay.  By  J.  Fen- 
imore Cooper 20 

425  Oak-Openings,  The;  or,  The 

Bee-Hunter.  By  J.  Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

426  Venus’s  Doves.  By  Ida  Ash- 

worth Taylor 20 

427  Remarkable  History  of  Sir 

Thomas  Upmore,  Bart.,  M.P., 
The.  Formerly  known  as 
“ Tommy  Upmore.”  By  R. 

D.  Blackmore 20 

428  Z6ro:  A Story  of  Monte-Carlo. 

By  Mrs.  Campbell-Praed 10 

429  Boulderstone : or,  New  Men  and 

Old  Populations.  By  W.  Sime  10 

430  Bitter  Reckoning,  A.  By  the  au- 

thor of  “ By  Crooked  Paths  ” 10 

431  Monikins,  The.  By  J.  Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

432  Witch’s  Head,  The.  By  H. 

Rider  Haggard 20 

433  My  Sister  Kate.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

434  Wyllard’s  Weird.  By  Miss  M.  E. 

Braddon 20 

435  Klytia : A Story  of  Heidelberg 

Castle.  By  George  Taylor. ..  20 


Stella.  By  Fanny  Lewald 20 

Life  and  Adventures  of  Martin 
Ohuzzlewit.  By  Charles  Dick- 
ens. First  half 20 

Life  and  Adventures  of  Martin 
Chuzzlewit.  By  Charles  Dick- 
ens. Second  half 20 

Found  Out.  By  Helen  B. 

Mathers 10 

Great  Expectations.  By  Charles 

Dickens. . 20 

Mrs.  Lirriper’s  Lodgings.  By 

Charles  Dickens 10 

Sea  Change,  A.  By  Flora  L. 

Shaw 20 

Ranthorpe.  By  George  Henry 

Lewes 20 

Bachelor  of  the  Albany,  The. . . 10 
Heart  of  Jane  Warner,  The.  By 

Florence  Marryat 20 

Shadow  of  a Crime,  The.  By 

Hall  Caine 20 

Dame  Durden.  By  “Rita”...  20 
American  Notes.  By  Charles 

Dickens 20 

Pictures  From  Italy,  and  The 
Mudfog  Papers,  &c.  By  Chas. 

Dickens 20 

Peeress  and  Player.  By  Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

Godfrey  Helstone.  By  Georgi- 

ana  M.  Craik 20 

Market  Harborough,  and  Inside 
the  Bar.  G.  J.  Whyte-Melville  20 
In  the  West  Countrie.  By  May 

Crommelin 20 

Lottery  Ticket,  The.  By  F.  Du 

Boisgobey  20 

Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood,  The. 

By  Chas.  Dickens 20 

Lazarus  in  London.  By  F.  W. 

Robinson 20 

Sketches  by  Boz.  Illustrative 
of  Every-day  Life  and  Every- 
day People.  By  Charles  Dick- 
ens   20 

Russians  at  the  Gates  of  Herat, 
The.  By  Charles  Marvin.  ...  10 
Week  of  Passion,  A;  or,  The 
Dilemma  of  Blr.  George  Bar- 
ton the  Younger.  By  Edward 

Jenkins 2© 

Woman's  Temptation,  A.  By 
Charlotte  M.  Braeme.  (Large 

type  edition) 20 

Woman’s  Temptation,  A.  By 
Charlotte  BI.  Braeme,  author 

of  “ Dora  Thorne  ” 10 

Under  a Shadow.  By  Char- 
lotte BI.  Braeme,  author  of 

“Dora  Thorne” 20 

His  Wedded  Wife.  By  author 

of  “ A Fatal  Dower  ” 20 

Alice’s  Adventures  in  Wonder- 
land. By  Lewis  Carroll.  With 
forty  - two  illustrations  by 

John  Tenniel. 20 

Redgauntlet.  By  Sir  Walter 
Scott 20 


436 

437 

437 

438 

439 

440 

441 

442 

443 

444 

445 

446 

447 

448 

449 

450 

451 

452 

453 

454 

455 

456 

457 

458 

459 

951 

460 

461 

462 

463 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY— Pocket  Edition. 


9 


464  Newcomes,  The.  By  William 
Makepeace  Thackeray.  Part 


I  20 

464  Newcomes,  The.  By  William 

Makepeace  Thackeray.  Part 

II  20 

465  Earl's  Atonement,  The.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 
of  “ Dora  Thorne  ” 20 

466  Between  Two  Loves.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“Dora  Thorne” 20 

467  Struggle  fora  Ring,  A.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“ Dora  Thorne  ” 20 

468  Fortunes,  Good  and  Bad,  of  a 

Sewing-Girl,  The.  By  Char- 
lotte M.  Stanley 10 

469  Lady  Darner's  Secret:  or,  A 

Guiding  Star.  By  Charlotte 
M.  Braeme,  author  of  “Dora 
Thorne  ” 20 

470  Evelyn’s  Folly.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme,  author  of  “Dora 
Thorne  ” 20 

471  Thrown  on  the  World.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“ Dora  Thorne  ” 20 

472  Wise  Women  of  Inverness, 

The.  ByWm.  Black 10 

473  Lost  Son,  A.  By  Mary  Linskill.  10 

474  Serapis.  By  George  Ebers 20 

475  Prima  Donna’s  Husband,  The.  20 

By  F.  Du  Boisgobey 

476  Between  Two  Sins;  or.  Married 

in  Haste.  By  Charlotte  M. 
Braeme,  author  of  “Dora 


Thorne  ” 10 

477  Affinities.  A Romance  of  To- 

day. By  Mrs.  Campbell -Praed  10 

478  Diavola;  or.  Nobody’s  Daugh- 

ter. By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon. 
Part  1 20 

478  Diavola;  or.  Nobody’s  Daugh- 

ter. By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon. 
Part  II 20 

479  Louisa.  By  Katharine  S.  Mac- 

quoid 20 

480  Married  in  Haste.  Edited  by 

Miss  M.  E.  Braddon 20 

481  House  That  Jack  Built,  The. 

By  Alison 10 


482  Vagrant  Wife,  A.  By  F.  Warden  20 

483  Betwixt  My  Love  and  Me.  By 

theauthorof  “A Golden  Bar”  10 

484  Although  He  Was  a Lord,  and 


Other  Tales.  Mrs.  Forrester.  10 

485  Tinted  Vapours.  By  J.  Maclaren 

Cobban 10 

486  Dick’s  Sweetheart.  By  “ The 

Duchess” 20 

487  Put  to  the  Test.  Edited  by 

Miss  M.  E.  Braddon 20 

488  Joshua  Haggard's  Daughter. 

By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon 20 

489  Rupert  Godwin.  By  Miss  M.  E. 

Braddon 20 

490  Second  Life,  A.  By  Mrs.  Alex- 

ander  20 


491  Society  in  London.  By  a For- 

eign Resident. ... . 10 

492  Mignon ; or.  Booties’  Baby.  By 

S.  S.  Winter.  Illustrated 10 

493  Colonel  Enderby’s  Wife.  By 

Lucas  Malet 20 

494  Maiden  All  Forlorn,  A,  and  Bar- 

bara. By  “ The  Duchess  ”...  10 

495  Mount  Royal.  By  Miss  M.  E. 

Braddon 20 

496  Only  a Woman.  Edited  by  Miss 

M.  E.  Braddon 20 


497  Lady’s  Mile,  The.  By  Miss  M. 

E.' Braddon 20 

498  Only  a Clod.  By  Miss  M.  E. 

Braddon 20 

499  Cloven  Foot,  The.  By  Miss  M. 

E.  Braddon 20 


500  Adrian  Vidal.  By  W.  E.  Norris  20 


501  Mr.  Butler’s  War'd.  By  F.  Mabel 

Robinson 20 

502  Carriston's  Gift.  By  Hugh 

Conway,  author  of  “Called 
Back  ” 10 


503  Tinted  Venus,  The.  By  F.  Anstey  10 

504  Curly:  An  Actor’s  Story.  By 

John  Coleman.  Illustrated.  10 

505  Society  of  London,  The.  By 

Count  Paul  Vasili 10 

506  Lady  Lovelace.  By  the  author 

of  “Judith  Wynne” 20 

507  Chronicles  of  the  Canongate, 

and  Other  Stories.  By  Sir 
Walter  Scott 10 

508  Unholy  Wish,  The.  By  Mrs. 

Henry  Wood 10 

509  Nell  Haffenden.  By  Tighe  Hop- 

kins..  20 

510  Mad  Love,  A.  By  the  author  of 

“Lover  and  Lord” 10 

511  Strange  World,  A.  By  Miss  M. 

E.  Braddon 20 

512  Waters  of  Hercules,  The 20 

513  Helen  Whitney’s  Wedding,  and 

Other  Tales.  By  Mrs.  Henry 
Wood 10 

514  Mj  stery  of  Jessy  Page,  The, 

and  Other  Tales.  By  Mrs. 
Henry  Wood 10 

515  Sir  Jasper’s  Tenant.  By  Miss 

M.  E.  Braddon 20 

516  Put  Asunder;  or,  Lady  Castle- 

maine’s  Divorce.  By  Char- 
lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“Dora  Thorne” 20 

517  Passive  Crime,  A,  and  Other 

Stories.  By  “ The  Duchess  ” 10 

518  Hidden  Sin,  The.  A Novel 20 

519  James  Gordon's  Wife,  A Novel  20 

520  She's  All  the  World  to  Me.  By 

Hall  Caine 10 

521 'Entangled.  By  E.  Fairfax 
Byrrne 20 

522  Zig-Zag,  the  Clown;  or,  The 

Steel  Gauntlets.  By  F.  Du 
Boisgobey 20 

523  Consequences  of  a Duel,  The. 

Bv  F.  Du  Boisgobey 20 


10 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBHAKY— Pocket  Edition. 


524  Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  By 


Miss  M.  E.  Braddon 20 

525  Paul  Vargas,  and  Other  Stories. 

By  Hugh  Conway,  author  of 
“Called  Back” 10 

526  Madame  De  Presnel.  By  E. 

Frances  Poynter 20 

527  Days  of  My  Life.  The.  By  Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

528  At  His  Gates.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant  20 

529  Doctor’s  Wife,  The.  By  Miss  M. 

E.  Braddon 20 

530  Pair  of  Blue  Eyes,  A.  By  Thom- 

as Hardy 20 


531  Prime  Minister,  The.  By  An- 
thony Trollope.  First  Half..  20 

531  Prime  Minister,  The.  By  An- 

thony Trollope.  Second  Half  20 

532  Arden  Court.  Barbara  Graham  20 

533  Hazel  Kirke.  By  Marie  Walsh  20 


534  Jack.  By  Alphonse  Daudet 20 

535  Henrietta’s  Wish;  or.  Domi- 

neering-. By  Charlotte  M. 
Yonge 10 

536  Dissolving  Views.  By  Mrs.  An- 

drew Lang 10 

537  Piccadilly.  Laurence  Oliphant  10 

538  Fair  Country  Maid,  A.  By  E. 

Fairfax  Byrrne 20 

539  Silvermead.  By  Jean  Middle- 

mas 20 

540  At  a High  Price.  By  E.  Werner  20 

541  “As  it  Fell  Upon  a Day,”  by 

“The  Duchess,”  and  Uncle 
Jack,  by  Walter  Besant 10 

542  Fenton’s  Quest.  By  Miss  M.  E. 

Braddon 20 

543  Family  Affair,  A.  By  Hugh 

Conway,  author  of  “ Called 
Back  ” 20 

544  Cut  by  the  County;  or,  Grace 

Darnel.  By  Miss  M.  E.  Brad- 
don  10 

545  Vida  s Story.  By  author  of 

“ Guilty  Without  Crime  ” 10 

546  Mrs.  Keith’s  Crime 10 

547  Coquette’s  Conquest,  A.  By 

Basil 20 

548  Fatal  Marriage,  A,  and  The 

Shadow  in  the  Corner.  By 
Miss  M.  E.  Braddon 10 

549  Dudley  Carleon ; or.  The  Broth- 

er’s Secret,  and  George  Caul- 
field’s Journey.  By  Miss  M.  E. 
Braddon 10 

550  Struck  Down.  By  Hawley  Smart  10 

551  Barbara  Heathcote’s  Trial.  By 

Rosa  N.  Carey.  2 parts,  each  20 

552  Hostages  to  Fortune.  By  Miss 

M.  E.  Braddon 20 

553  Birds  of  Prey.  By  Miss  M.  E. 

Braddon 20 

554  Charlotte’s  Inheritance.  (A  Se- 

quel to  “ Birds  of  Prey.”)  By 
Miss  M.  E.  Braddon 20 

555  Cara  Roma.  By  Miss  Grant 20 

556  Prince  of  Darkness,  A.  By  F. 

Warden 20 


557  To  the  Bitter  End.  By  Miss  M. 

E.  Braddon 20 

558  Poverty  Corner.  By  G.  Manville 

Fenn 20 

559  Taken  at  the  Flood.  By  Miss 

M.  E.  Braddon 20 

560  Asphodel.  By  Miss  M.  E.  Brad- 

don  20 

561  Just  As  I Am ; or,  A Living  Lie. 

By  Miss  M.  E Braddon 20 

562  Lewis  Arundel;  or,  The  Rail- 

road of  Life.  By  Frank  E. 
Smedley 20 

563  Two  Sides  of  the  Shield,  The. 

By  Charlotte  M.  Yonge 20 

564  At  Bay.  By  Mrs.  Alexander. . . 10 

565  No  Medium.  By  Annie  Thomas  10 

566  Royal  Highlanders,  The;  or, 

The  Black  Watch  in  Egypt. 

By  James  Grant. 20 

567  Dead  Men’s  Shoes.  By  Miss  M. 

E.  Braddon 20 

568  Perpetual  Curate,  The.  By  Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

569  Harry  Muir.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant  20 

570  John  Marchmont’s  Legacy.  By 

Miss  M.  E.  Braddon 20 

571  Paul  Carew’s  Story.  By  Alice 

Comyns  Carr 10 


572  Healey.  By  Jessie  Fothergill.  20 

573  Love’s  Harvest.  B.  L.  Farjeon  20 

574  Nabob,  The:  A Story  of  Paris- 


ian Life  and  Manners.  By  Al- 
phonse Daudet 20 

575  Finger  of  Fate,  The.  By  Cap- 

tain Mayne  Reid 20 

576  Her  Martyrdom.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 

577  In  Peril  and  Privation.  By 

James  Payn 10 


578  Mathias  Sandorf.  By  Jules 

Verne.  (Illustrated.)  Parti.  10 
578  Mathias  Sandorf.  By  Jules 

Verne.  (Illustrated.)  Part  II  10 

578  Mathias  Sandorf.  By  Jules 

Verne.  (Illustrated.)  Part  III  10 

579  Flower  of  Doom,  The,  and 

Other  Stories.  ByM.  Betham- 


Ed  wards 10 

580  Red  Route,  The.  By  William 

Sime 20 

581  Betrothed,  The.  (I  Promessi 

Sposi,)  Alessandro  Manzoni.  20 

582  Lucia,  Hugh  and  Another.  By 

Mrs.  J.  H.  Needell 20 

583  Victory  Deane.  By  Cecil  Griffith  20 

584  Mixed  Motives 10 

585  Drawn  Game.  A.  By  Basil 20 

586  “For  Percival.”  By  Margaret 

Veley...  20 

587  Parson  o’  Dumford,  The.  By 

G.  Manville  Fenn 20 

588  Cherry.  By  the  author  of  “A 

Great  Mistake” 10 

589  Luck  of  the  Darrells,  The.  By 

James  Payn 20 

590  Courting  of  Mary  Smith,  The. 

By  F.  W.  Robinson 20 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY — Pocket  Edition. 


11 


591  Queen  of  Hearts,  The.  By  Wil- 


kie Collins 20 

592  Strange  Voyage,  A.  By  W. 

Clark  Russell 20 

593  Berna  Boyle.  By  IJrs.  J.  H. 

Riddell  20 

594  Doctor  Jacob.  By  Miss  Betham- 

Ed  wards 20 

595  North  Country  Maid,  A.  By 

Mrs.  R.  Lovett  Cameron. ....  20 

596  My  Ducats  and  My  Daughter. 

By  the  author  of  “ The  Crime 
of  Christmas  Day” 20 

597  Haco  the  Dreamer.  By  William 

Sime 10 

598  Corinna.  By  “Rita” 10 

599  Lancelot  Ward,  M.P.  By  George 

Temple 10 

600  Houp-La.  By  John  Strange 

Winter.  (Illustrated) 10 

601  Slings  and  Arrows,  and  other 

Stories.  By  Hugh  Conway, 
author  of  “Called  Back”...  10 

602  Camiola:  A Girl  With  a Fortune. 


By  Justin  McCarthy 20 

603  Agnes.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant.  First 
Half 20 

603  Agnes.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant.  Sec- 

ond Half 20 

604  Innocent:  A Tale  of  Modern 

Life.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant.  First 
Half 20 

604  Innocent:  A Tale  of  Modern 

Life.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant.  Sec- 
ond Half 20 

605  Ombra.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant 20 

606  Mrs.  Hollyer.  By  Georgiana  M. 

Craik 20 

607  Self-Doomed.  By  B.  L.  Far  jeon  10 

608  For  Lilias.  By  Rosa  Nouchette 


Carey.  In  Two  Parts,  each . . 20 

609  Dark  House,  The : A Knot  Un- 

raveled. By  G.  Manville  Fenn  10 

610  Story  of  Dorothy  Grape,  The, 

and  Other  Tales.  By  Mrs. 
Henry  Wood 10 

611  Babylon.  By  Cecil  Power 20 

612  My  Wife’s  Niece.  By  the  author 

of  “Doctor  Edith  Romney  ”.  20 

613  Ghost’s  Touch,  The.  By  Wilkie 

• Collins 10 

6M  No.  99.  By  Arthur  Griffiths...  10 

615  Mary  Anerley.  By  R.  D.  Black- 

more 20 

616  Sacred  Nugget,  The.  By  B.  L. 

Far  jeon 20 

617  Like  Dian’s  Kiss.  By  “ Rita  ”.  20 

618  Mistletoe  Bough.  The.  Christ- 

mas. 1885.  Edited  by  Miss  M. 

E.  Braddon 20 

619  Joy;  or,  The  Light  of  Cold- 

Home  Ford.  By  May  Crom- 
melin 20 

620  Between  the  Heather  and  the 

Northern  Sea.  By  M.  Linskill  20 

621  Warden,  The.  By  Anthony 

Trollope 10 

622  Harry  Heathcote  of  Gangoil.  By 

Anthony  Trollope 10 


623  My  Lady’s  Money.  By  Wilkie 


Collins 10 

624  Primus  in  Indis.  By  M.  J.  Col- 

quhoun 10 

625  Erema;  or,  My  Father’s  Sin. 

By  R.  D.  Blackmore 20 

626  Fair  Mystery,  A.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braerne,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne  ” 20 

627  White  Heather.  By  Wm.  Black  20 

628  Wedded  Hands.  By  the  author 

of  “ My  Lady’s  Folly  ” 20 

629  Cripps,  the  Carrier.  By  R.  D. 

Blackmore 20 

630  Cradock  Nowell.  By  R.  D. 

Blackmore.  First  half 20 

630  Cradock  Nowell.  By  R.  D. 

Blackmore.  Second  half 20 

631  Christo  well.  By  R.  D.  Blackmore  20 

632  Clara  Vaughan.  ByR.  D.  Black- 

more 20 

633  Maid  of  Sker,  The.  By  R.  D. 

Blackmore.  1st  half 20 

633  Maid  of  Sker,  The.  By  R.  D. 

Blackmore.  2d  half. 20 

634  Unforeseen,  The.  By  Alice 

O’Hanlon 20 

635  Murder  or  Manslaughter?  By 

Helen  B.  Mathers 10 

636  Alice  Lorraine.  By  R.  D.  Black- 

more.  1st  half . 20 

636  Alice  Lorraine.  By  R.  D.  Black- 

more.  2d  half 20 

637  What’s  His  Offence?  By  author 

of  “ The  Two  Miss  Flemings  ” 20 

638  In  Quarters  with  the  25th  (The 

Black  Horse)  Dragoons.  By 
J.  S.  Winter 10 


639  Othmar.  “Quida.”  2 parts, each  20 

640  Nuttie’s  Father.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Yonge 20 

641  Rabbi’s  Spell,  The.  By  Stuart 

C.  Cumberland 10 

642  Britta.  By  George  Temple 10 

643  Sketch-book  of  Geoffrey  Cray- 

on, Gent,  The.  By  Washing- 
ton Irving 20 

644  Girton  Girl,  A.  By  Mrs.  Annie 

Edwards 20 

645  Mrs.  Smith  of  Longmains.  By 

Rhoda  Broughton 10 

646  Master  of  the  Mine,  The.  By 

Robert  Buchanan 20 

647  Goblin  Gold.  By  May  Crom- 

melin 10 

648  Angel  of  the  Bells,  The.  By  F. 

Du  Boisgobey . . . 20 

649  Cradle  and  Spade.  By  William 

Sime 20 

650  Alice;  or,  The  Mysteries.  (A  Se- 

quel to  “ Ernest  Maltravers.”) 

By  Sir  E.  Bulwer  Lytton 20 

651  “Self  or  Bearer.”  By  Walter 

Besant 10 

652  Lady  With  the  Rubies,  The.  By 

E.  Marlitt. . 20 

653  Barren  Title,  A.  T.  W.  Speight  10 
054  “ Us.”  An  Old-fashioned  Story. 

By  Mrs.  Molesworth 10 


12 


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655  Open-  Door,  The.  By  Mrs.  Oli- 

phant  

656  Golden  Flood,  The.  By  R.  E. 

Francillon  and  Wm.  Senior. . 

657  Christmas  Angel.  By  B.  L.  Far- 

jeon 

658  History  of  a Week,  The.  By 

Mrs.  L.  B.  Walford 

659  Waif  of  the  “ Cynthia,11  The. 

By  Jules  Verne. 

660  Scottish  Chiefs,  The.  By  Miss 

Jane  Porter.  1st  half 

660  Scottish  Chiefs,  The.  By  Miss 

Jane  Porter.  2d  half 

661  Rainbow  Gold.  By  David  Chris- 

tie Murray 

662  Mystery  of  Allan  Grale,  The.  By 

Isabella  Fyvie  Mayo ... 

663  Handy  Andy.  By  Samuel  Lover 

664  Rory  O’More.  By  Samuel  Lover 

665  Dove  in  the  Eagle's  Nest,  The. 

By  Charlotte  M.  Yonge 

666  My  Young  Alcides.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Yonge — 

667  Golden  Lion  of  Granpere,  The. 

By  Anthony  Trollope — 

668  Half-Way.  An  Anglo-French 

Romance 

669  Philosophy  of  Whist,  The.  By 

William'  Pole 

670  Rose  and  the  Ring,  The.  By 

W.  M.  Thackeray.  Illustrated 

671  Don  Gesualdo.  By  “ Ouida.11. . 

672  In  Maremma.  By  V Ouida.11  1st 

half 

672  In  Maremma.  By  “ Ouida.11  2d 

half 

673  Story  of  a Sin.  By  Helen  B. 

Mathers 

674  First  Person  Singular.  By  Da- 

vid Christie  Murray 

675  Mrs.  Dymond.  By  Miss  Thacke- 

ray  

676  Child’s  History  of  England,  A. 

By  Charles  Dickens 

677  Griselda.  By  the  author  of  “A 

Woman’s  Love-Story” 

678  Dorothy’s  Venture.  By  Mary 

Cecil  Hay 

679  Where  Two  Ways  Meet.  By 

Sarah  Doudney 

680  Fast  and  Loose.  By  Arthur 

Griffiths 

681  Singer’s  Story,  A.  By  May 

Laff  an 

682  In  the  Middle  Watch.  By  W. 

Clark  Russell 

683  Bachelor  Vicar  of  Newforth, 

The.  By  Mrs.  J.  Harcourt-Roe 

684  Last  Days  at  Apswich 

685  England  under  Gladstone.  1880 

—1885.  By  Justin  H.  McCar- 
thy, M.P 

686  Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and 

Mr.  Hyde.  By  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson 

687  Country  Gentleman,  A.  By  Mrs. 

Oliphant 


688  Man  of  Honor,  A.  By  John 


Strange  Winter.  Illustrated.  10 

689  Heir  Presumptive,  The.  By 

Florence  Marryat 20 

690  Far  From  the  Madding  Crowd. 

By  Thorrfas  Hardy 20 

691  Valentine  Strange.  By  David 

Christie  Murray 20 

692  Mikado,  The.  and  other  Comic 

Operas.  Written  by  W.  S. 
Gilbert.  Composed  by  Arthur 
Sullivan 20 

693  Felix  Holt,  the  Radical.  By 

George  Eliot 20 

694  John  Maidment.  By  Julian 

Sturgis 20 

695  Hearts:  Queen,  Knave,  and 

Deuce.  By  David  Christie 
Murray 20 

696  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw.  By  Miss 

Jane  Porter 20 

697  Pretty  Jailer,  The.  By  F.  Du 

Boisgobey.  1st  half 20 

697  Pretty  Jailer,  The.  By  F.  Du 

Boisgobey.  2d  half 20 

698  Life’s  Atonement,  A.  By  David 

Christie  Murray 20 

699  Sculptor’s  Daughter,  The.  By 

F.  Du  Boisgobey.  1st  half ...  20 

699  Sculptor’s  Daughter,  The.  By 

F.  Du  Boisgobey.  2d  half. ...  20 

700  Ralph  the  Heir.  By  Anthony 

Trollope.  First  half 20 

700  Ralph  the  Heir.  By  Anthony 

Trollope.  Second  half 20 

701  Woman  in  White,  The.  Wilkie 

Collins.  Illustrated.  1st  half  20 

701  Woman  in  White,  The.  Wilkie 

Collins.  Illustrated.  2d  half  20 

702  Man  and  Wife.  By  Wilkie  Col- 

lins. First  half 20 

702  Man  and  Wife.  By  Wilkie  Col- 

lins. Second  half 20 

703  House  Divided  Against  Itself, 

A.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant 20 

704  Prince  Otto.  By  R.  L.  Steven- 

son   10 

705  Woman  I Loved,  The,  and  the 

Woman  Who  Loved  Me.  By 
Isa  Blagden 10 

706  Crimson  Stain,  A.  By  Annie 

Bradshaw 10 


707  Silas  Marner:  The  Weaver  of 


Raveloe.  By  George  Eliot. . . 10 

708  Ormond.  By  Maria  Edgeworth  20 

709  Zenobia;  or.  The  Fall  of  Pal- 

myra. By  William  Ware. 
First  half 20 

709  Zenobia;  or.  The  Fall  of  Pal- 

myra. By  William  Ware. 
Second  half 10 

710  Greatest  Heiress  in  England, 

The.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant 20 

711  Cardinal  Sin,  A.  By  Hugh  Con- 

way, author  of  “ Called 
Back” 20 

712  For  Maimie’s  Sake.  By  Grant 

Allen 20 


10 

10 

10 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

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713  “ Cherry  Ripe.”  By  Helen  B. 

Mathers 20 

714  ’Twixt  Love  and  Duty.  By 

Tighe  Hopkins 20 

715  I Have  Lived  and  Loved.  By 

Mrs.  Forrester 20 

716  Victor  and  Vanquished.  By 

Mary  Cecil  Hay '. . 20 

717  Beau  Tancrede;  or,  the  Mar- 

riage Verdict.  By  Alexander 
Dumas 20 

718  Unfairly  Won.  By  Mrs.  Power 

O’Donoghue 20 

719  Childe  Harold’s  Pilgrimage. 

By  Lord  Byron 10 

720  Paul  Clifford.  By  Sir  E.  Bulwer 

Lytton,  Bart 20 

721  Dolores.  By  Mrs.  Forrester. . . 20 

722  What’s  Mine’s  Mine.  By  George 

Macdonald 20 

723  Mauleverer’s  Millions.  By  T. 

Wemyss  Reid 20 

724  My  Lord  and  My  Lady.  By 

Mrs.  Forrester 20 

725  My  Ten  Years’  Imprisonment. 

By  Silvio  Pellico 10 

726  My  Hero.  By  Mrs.  Forrester..  20 

727  P air  Women.  By  Mrs.  Forrester  20 

728  Janet’s  Repentance.  By  George 

Eliot : 10 

729  Mignon.  By  Mrs.  Forrester...  20 

730  Autobiography  of  Benjamin 

Franklin,  The 10 

731  Bayou  Bride.  The.  By  Mrs. 

Mary  E.  Bryan ...  20 

732  From  Olympus  to  Hades.  By 

Mrs.  Forrester 20 

<33  Lady  Branksmere.  By  “The 
Duchess” 20 

734  Viva.  By  Mrs.  Forrester 20 

735  Until  the  Day  Breaks.  By 

Emily  Spender 20 

736  Roy  and  Viola.  Mrs.  Forrester  20 

737  Aunt  Rachel.  By  David  Christie 

Murray 10 

738  In  the  Golden  Days.  By  Edna 

Lyall 20 

739  Caged  Lion,  The.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Yonge 20 

740  Rhona.  By  Mrs.  Forrester 20 

741  Heiress  of  Hilldrop,  The;  or, 

The  Romance  of  a Young 
Girl.  By  Charlotte  M Braeme, 
author  of  “ Dora  Thorne  ”...  20 

742  Love  and  Life.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Yonge 20 

743  Jack’s  Courtship.  By  W.  Clark 

Russell.  1st  half 20 

743  Jack’s  Courtship.  By  W.  Clark 

Russell.  2d  half 20 

744  Diana  Carew.;  or.  For  a Wom- 

an’s Sake.  By  Mrs.  Forrester  20 

745  For  Another’s  Sin  ; or,  A Strug- 

gle for  Love.  By  Charlotte  M. 
Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne  ” 20 

746  Cavalry  Life;  or,  Sketches  and 

Stories  in  Barracks  and  Out. 

By  J.  S.  Winter 20 


Our  Sensation  Novel.  Edited 
by  Justin  H.  McCarthy,  M.P.  10 
Hurrish : A Study.  By  the 

Hon.  Emily  Lawiess 20 

Lord  Vanecourt’s  Daughter.  By 
Mabel  Collins 20 


An  Old  Story  of  My  Farming 
Daj^s.  Fritz  Reuter.  1st  half  20 
An  Old  Story  of  My  Farming 
Days.  Fritz  Reuter.  2d  half  20 
Great  Voyages  and  Great  Navi- 
gators. Jules  Verne.  1st  half  JO 
Great  Voyages  and  Great  Navi- 
gators. Jules  Verne.  2d  half  20 
Jackanapes,  and  Other  Stories. 


By  Juliana  Horatio  Ewing. . . 10 
King  Solomon’s  Mines.  By  H. 

Rider  Haggard 20 

How  to  be  Happy  Though  Mar- 
ried. By  a Graduate  in  the 
University  of  Matrimony..!.  20 

Margery  Daw.  A Novel 20 

Strange  Adventures  of  Captain 
Dangerous,  The.  By  George 

Augustus  Sala 20 

Love’s  Martyr.  By  Laurence 

Alma  Tadema 10 

“Good-bye,  Sweetheart!”  By 

Rlioda  Broughton 20 

In  Shallow  Waters.  By  Annie 

Armitt 20 

Aurelian ; or,  Rome  in  the  Third 
Century.  By  William  Ware.  20 
Will  Weatherhelm.  By  William 

H.  G.  Kingston 20 

Impressions  of  Theophrastus 

Such.  By  George  Eliot 10 

Midshipman,  The,  Marmaduke 
Merry.  Wm.  H.  G.  Kingston.  20 
Evil  Genius,  The.  By  Wilkie 

Collins 20 

Not  Wisely,  But  Too  Well.  By 
Rhoda  Broughton 20 


No.  XIII. ; or,  The  Story  of  the 
Lost  Vestal.  Emma  Marshall  10 
Joan.  By  Rhoda  Broughton. . 20 
Red  as  a Rose  is  She.  By  Rhoda 


Broughton 20 

Cometh  Up  as  a Flower.  By 

Rhoda  Broughton 20 

Castle  of  Otranto,  The.  By 

Horace  WTalpole 10 

Mental  Struggle,  A.  By  “The 

Duchess”. 20 

Gascoyne,  the  Sandal-Wood 
Trader.  By  R.  M.  Ballantyne  20 
Mark  of  Cain,  The.  By  Andrew 

Lang 10 

Life  and  Travels  of  Mungo 

Park,  The 10 

Three  Clerks,  The.  By  Anthony 

Trollope 20 

Pdre  Goriot.  By  H.  De  Balzac  20 

Voyages  and  Travels  of  Sir 
John  Mauudeville,  Kt.,  The. . 10 
Society’s  Verdict.  By  the  au- 
thor of  “ My  Marriage  ” 20 

Doom  ! An  Atlantic  Episode. 

By  Justin  II.  McCarthy,  M.P.  10 


747 

748 

749 

750 

750 

751 

751 

752 

753 

754 

755 

756 

757 

758 

759 

760 

761 

762 

763 

764 

765 

766 

767 

768 

769 

770 

771 

772 

773 

774 

775  1 

776 

777 

778 

779 


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THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY— Pocket  Edition. 


780  Rare  Pale  Margaret.  By  the  au- 
thor of  “ What’s  His  Offence?”  20 


Grant. 10 

782  Closed  Door,  The.  By  F.  Du 
Boisgobey.  1st  half 20 

782  Closed  Door,  The.  By  F.  Du 

Boisgobey.  2d  half 20 

783  Chantry  House.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Yonge : — 20 

784  Two  Miss  Flemings,  The.  By  au- 

thor of  “ What’s  His  Offence?”  20 

785  Haunted  Chamber,  The.  By 

“The  Duchess” 10 

786  Ethel  Mildmay’s  Follies.  By 

author  of  “ Petite’s  Romance  ” 20 

787  Court  Royal.  A Story  of  Cross 

Currents.  By  S.  Baring-Gould  20 

788  Absentee,  The.  An  Irish  Story. 

By  Maria  Edgeworth 20 

789  Through  the  Looking-Glass, 

and  What  Alice  Found  There. 

By  Lewis  Carroll.  With  fifty 
illustrations  by  John  Tenniel.  20 


790  Chaplet  of  Pearls,  The ; or,  The 
White  and  Black  Ribaumont. 
Charlotte  M.  Yonge.  1st  half  20 

790  Chaplet  of  Pearls,  The ; or,  The 

White  and  Black  Ribaumont. 
Charlotte  M.  Yonge.  2d  half  20 

791  Mayor  of  Casterbridge,  The.  By 


Thomas  Hardy 20 

792  Set  in  Diamonds.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 

793  Vivian  Grey.  By  the  Rt.  Hon. 

Benjamin  Disraeli,  Earl  of 
Beaconsfield.  First  half 20 

793  Vivian  Grey.  By  the  Rt.  Hon. 

Benjamin  Disraeli,  Earl  of 
Beaconsfield.  Second  half. . . 20 

794  Beaton’s  Bargain.  By  Mrs.  Al- 

exander  20 

795  Sam’s  Sweetheart.  By  Helen 

B.  Blathers 20 

796  In  a Grass  Country.  By  Mrs. 

H.  Lovett  Cameron 20 

797  Look  Before  You  Leap.  By 

Mrs.  Alexander 20 

798  Fashion  of  this  World,  The.  By 

Helen  B.  Blathers 10 

799  My  Lady  Green  Sleeves.  By 

Helen  B.  Mathers 20 


800  Hopes  and  Fears;  or.  Scenes 
from  the  Life  of  a Spinster. 
Charlotte  M.  Yonge.  1st  half  20 

800  Hopes  and  Fears;  or,  Scenes 

from  the  Life  of  a Spinster. 
Charlotte  BI.  Yonge.  ' 2d  half  20 

801  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  and 

The  Good-Natured  Man.  By 


Oliver  Goldsmith 10 

802  Stern  Chase,  A.  By  Mrs.Cashel- 

Hoey  20 

803  Major  Frank.  By  A.  L.  G.  Bos- 

boom-Toussaint 20 

804  Living  or  Dead.  By  Hugh  Con- 


way, author  of  “Called  Back  ” 20 


Freres,  The.  By  Mrs.  Alex- 
ander. 1st  half 20 

Freres,  The.  By  Mrs.  Alex- 
ander. 2d  half 20 

Her  Dearest  Foe.  By  Mrs.  Alex- 
ander. First  half 20 

Her  Dearest  Foe.  By  Blrs.  Alex- 
ander. Second  half 20 

If  Love  Be  Love.  D.  Cecil  Gibbs  20 
King  Arthur.  Not  a Love  Story. 

By  Bliss  Blulock 20 

Witness  My  Hand.  By  the  au- 
thor of  “ Lady  Gwendolen’s 

Tryst” 10 

Secret  of  Her  Life,  The.  By  Ed- 
ward Jenkins . 20 

Head  Station,  The.  By  Mrs. 

Campbell-Praed 20 

No  Saint.  By  Adeline  Sergeant  20 
Army  Society.  Life  in  a Garri- 
son Town.  By  John  Strange 

WTnter 10 

Heritage  of  Langdale,  The.  By 

Blrs.  Alexander. ;.  20 

Ralph  W7ilton’s  Weird.  By  Blrs. 

Alexander 10 

Rogues  and  Vagabonds.  By 
George  R.  Sims,  author  of 

“’Ostler  Joe” 20 

Stabbed  in  the  Dark.  By  Blrs. 

E.  Lynn  Linton 10 

Pluck.  By  John  Strange  Winter  10 
Fallen  Idol,  A.  By  F.  Anstey. . . 20 
Doris’s  Fortune.  By  Florence 

Warden 20 

World  Between  Them,  The.  By 
Charlotte  Bl.  Braeme,  author 

of  “ Dora  Thorne.” 20 

Passion  Flower,  A.  A Novel. ..  20 
Heir  of  the  Ages,  The.  By  James 

Payn 20 

Her  Own  Doing.  W.  E.  Norris  10 
Master  Passion,  The.  By  Flor- 
ence Blarryat 20 

Cynic  Fortune.  By  D.  Christie 

Murray 20 

Effie  Ogilvie.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant  20 
Prettiest  Woman  in  Warsaw, 

The.  By  Mabel  Collins 20 

Actor’s  Ward,  The.  By  the  au- 
thor of  “A  Fatal  Dower  ”.. . 20 
Bound  by  a Spell.  Hugh  Con- 
way, author  of  “Called  Back”  20 
Pomegranate  Seed.  By  the  au- 
thor of  “ The  Two  Bliss  Flem- 
ings,” etc 20 

Kidnapped.  By  Robert  Louis 

Stevenson 20 

Ticket  No.  “9672.”  By  Jules 

Verne.  First  half 10 

Ticket  No.  “ 9672.”  By  Jules 

Verne.  Second  half 10 

Ballroom  Repentance,  A.  By 

Blrs.  Annie  Edwards 20 

Vivian  the  Beauty.  By  Mrs. 

Annie  Edwards 20 

Point  of  Honor,  A.  By  Mrs.  An- 
nie Edwards 20 


805 

805 

806 

806 

807 

808 

809 

810 

811 

812 

813 

814 

815 

816 

817 

818 

819 

820 

821 

822 

823 

824 

825 

826 

827 

828 

829 

830 

831 

832 

833 

833 

834 

8=35 

836 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY— Pocket  Edition. 


15 


8S7  Vagabond  Heroine,  A.  By  Mrs. 

Annie  Edwards 10 

838  Ought  We  to  Visit  Her?  By 

Mrs.  Annie  Edwards 20 

839  Leah:  A Woman  of  Fashion. 

By  Mrs.  Annie  Edwards 20 

840  One  Thing  Needful;-  or,  The 

Penalty  of  Fate.  By  Miss  M. 

E.  Braddon . . 20 

841  Jet:  Her  Face  or  Her  Fortune? 

By  Mrs.  Annie  Edwards 10 

842  Blue-Stocking,  A.  By  Mrs.  An- 

nie Edwards 10 

843  Archie  Lovell.  By  Mrs.  Annie 

Edwards 20 

844  Susan  Fielding.  By  Mrs.  Annie 

Edwards , 20 

845  Philip  Earnscliffe;  or,  The  Mor- 

als of  May  Fair.  By  Mrs. 
Annie  Edwards 20 

846  Steven  Lawrence.  By  Mrs. 

Annie  Edwards.  1st  half 20 

846  Steven  Lawrence.  By  Mrs. 

Annie  Edwards.  2d  half 20 

847  Bad  to  Beat.  By  Hawley  Smart  10 

848  My  Friend  Jim.  By  W.  E.  Norris  20 

849  Wicked  Girl,  A.  Mary  Cecil  Hay  20 

850  Playwright’s  Daughter,  A.  By 

Mrs.  Annie  Edwards 10 


851  Cry  of  Blood,  The.  By  F.  Du 

Boisgobey.  First  half 20 

851  Cry  of  Blood,  The.  By  F.  Du 

Boisgobey.  Second  half 20 

852  Under  Five  Lakes;  or,  The 

Cruise  of  the  “ Destroyer.” 

By  M.  Quad 20 

853  True  Magdalen,  A.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 

“ Dora  Thorne  ” 20 

854  Woman’s  Error,  A.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“ Dora  Thorne  ” 20 

855  Dynamiter,  The.  By  Robert 

Louis  Stevenson  and  Fanny 
Van  de  Grift  Stevenson 20 

856  New  Arabian  Nights.  By  Rob- 

ert Louis  Stevenson 20 

857  Kildee;  or,  The  Sphinx  of  the 

Red  House.  By  Mary  E. 

Bryan.  First  half 20 

857  Kildee;  or,  The  Sphinx  of  the 

Red  House.  By  Mary  E. 

Bryan.  Second  half 20 

858  Old  Ma’m’selle’s  Secret.  By  E. 

Marlitt 20 

859  Ottilie:  An  Eighteenth  Century 

Idyl,  and  The  Prince  of  the  100 
Soups.  By  Vernon  Lee 20 

860  Her  Lord  and  Master.  By  Flor- 

ence Marryat 20 

861  My  Sister  the  Actress.  By  Flor- 

ence Marryat 20 

862  Ugly  Barrington.  By  “ The 

Duchess.” 10 

863  “ My  Own  Child.”  By  Florence 

Marryat 20 

864  “ No  Intentions.”  By  Florence 

Marryat  20 


Written  in  Fire.  By  Florence 

Marryat 20 

Miss  Harrington’s  Husband;  or, 
Spiders  of  Society.  By  Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

Girls  of  Feversham,  The.  By 

Florence  Marryat 20 

Petronel.  By  Florence  Marryat  20 
Poison  of  Asps,  The.  By  Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

Out  of  His  Reckoning.  By  Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

Bachelor’s  Blunder,  A.  By  W. 

E.  Norris 20 

With  Cupid’s  Eyes.  By  Flor- 
ence Manyat. . 20 

Harvest  of  Wild  Oats,  A.  By 

Florence  Marryat 20 

House  Party,  A.  By  “ Ouida  ”.  10 
Lady  Val  worth’s  Diamonds.  By 

“The  Duchess” 20 

Mignon’s  Secret.  John  Strange 

Winter 10 

Facing  the  Footlights.  By  Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

Little  Tu’penny.  By  S.  Baring- 

Gould 10 

Touchstone  of  Peril,  The.  By 

R.  E.  Forrest 20 

Son  of  His  Father,  The.  By 

Mrs.  Oliphant 20 

Mohawks.  In  Two  Parts,  each  20 
Children  of  Gibeon.  By  Walter 

Besant 20 

Once  Again.  By  Mrs.  Forrester  20 
Voyage  to  the  Cape,  A.  By  W. 

Clark  Russell 20 

Les  Miserables.  Victor  Hugo. 

Part  1 20 

Les  Mis6rables.  Victor  Hugo. 

Part  II 20 

Les  Misdrables.  Victor  Hugo. 

PartHI 20 

Paston  Carew,  Millionaire  and 
Miser.  Mrs.  E.  Lynn  Linton  20 
Modern  Telemachus,  A.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Yonge 20 

Treasure  Island.  Robert  Louis 

Stevenson 10 

An  Inland  Voyage.  By  Robert 

Louis  Stevenson 10 

Mistletoe  Bough,  The.  Christ- 
mas, 1886.  Edited  by  Miss  M. 

E.  Braddon 20 

Vera  Nevill;  or,  Poor  Wisdom’s 
Chance.  By  Mrs.  H.  Lovett 

Cameron 20 

That  Winter  Night;  or,  Love’s 
Victory.  Robert  Buchanan. . 10 
Love’s  Conflict.  By  Florence 

Marryat.  First  half 20 

Love’s  Conflict.  By  Florence 

Marryat.  Second  half 20 

Doctor  Cupid.  By  Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

Star  and  a Heart,  A.  By  Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

Guilty  River,  The.  By  Wilkie 
Collins 20 


865 

866 

867 

888 

869 

870 

871 

872 

873 

874 

875 

876 

877 

87’8 

879 

880 

881 

882 

883 

884 

885 

885 

885 

886 

887 

888 

889 

890 

891 

892 

893 

893 

894 

895 

896 


16 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY— Pocket  Edition. 


897  An  ere.  By  Florence  Marryat. . . 20 

898  Bulldog  and  Butterfly,  and  Julia  • 

and  Her  Romeo,  by  David 
Christie  Murray,  and  Romeo 


and  Juliet,  by  William  Black.  20 

899  Little  Stepson,  A.  By  Florence 

Marryat 10 

900  Woman’s  Wit,  By.  By  Mrs.  Al- 

exander   / 20 

901  Lucky  Disappointment,  A.  By 

Florence  Marryat 10 

902  Poor  Gentleman,  A.  By  Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

903  Phyllida.  By  Florence  Marryat  20 

904  Holy  Rose,  The.  By  Walter  Be- 

sant 10 

905  Fair-Haired  Alda,  The.  By  Flor- 

ence Marry  at 20 

906  World  Went  Very  Well  Then, 

The.  By  Walter  Besant 20 

907  Bright  Star  of  Life,  The.  By 

B.  L.  Farjeon 20 

908  Willful  Young  Woman,  A 20 

909  Nine  of  Hearts,  The.  By  B.  L. 

Farjeon 20 

910  She:  A History  of  Adventure. 

By  H.  Rider  Plaggard 20 


911  Golden  Bells:  A Peal  in  Seven 

Changes.  By  R.  E.  Francillon  20 

912  Pure  Gold.  By  Mrs.  H.  Lovett 

Cameron.  Two  Parts,  each  20 

913  Silent  Shore,  The.  By  John 


Bloundelle- Burton 20 

914  Joan  Wentworth.  By  Katha- 

rine S.  Macquoid 20 

915  That  Other  Person.  By  Mrs. 

Alfred  Hunt.  Two  Parts,  each  20 

916  Golden  Hope,  The.  By  W.  Clark 

Russell.  „ ..  ... * 20 

917  Case  of  Reuben  Malachi,  The. 

By  H.  Sutherland  Edwards..  10 

918  Red  Band,  The.  By  F.  Du  Bois- 

gobey.  First  half - 20 

918  Red  Band,  The.  By  F.  Du  Bois- 

gobey.  Second  half 20 

919  Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  Af- 

ter, etc.  By  Alfred,  Lord 
Tennyson,  P.L.,  D.C.L 10 

920  Child  of  the  Revolution,  A.  By 

the  author  of  “ Mademoiselle 
Mori  ” 20 

921  Late  Miss  Hollingford,  The. 

By  Rosa  Mulholland 10 

922  Marjorie.  By  Charlotte  M. 

Braeme,  author  of  “Dora 

Thorne.”  . 20 

287  At  War  With  Herself.  By  Char- 
lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“Dora  Thorne  ” 10 

923  At  War  With  Herself.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme.  (Large  type 
edition) 20 

924  ’Twixt  Smile  and  Tear.  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“ Dora  Thorne  ” 20 


925  The  Outsider.  Hawley  Smart.  20 

926  Springhaven.  By  R.  D.  Black- 

more.  1st  and  2d  half , each . 20 


927  Sweet  Cymbeline.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme, . author  of 

“Dora  Thorne” 20 

294  Hilda;  or,  The  False  Vow.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme 10 

928  Hilda;  or,  The  False  Vow.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 
of  “Dora  Thorne.”  (Large 
type  edition) 20 

929  The  Belles  of  Lynn;  or,  The 

Miller's  Daughter.  By  Char- 
lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

930  Uncle  Max.  By  Rosa  Nouchette 

Carey.  In  Two  Parts,  each..  20 

931  Lady  Diana’s  Pride.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“Dora  Thorne” 20 

932  Queenie’s  Whim.  Rosa  Nou- 


chette Carey.  Two  Parts, each  20 

933  A Hidden  Terror.  Mary  Albert  20 

934  Wooed  and  Married.  Rosa  Nou- 

chette Carey.  2 parts,  each. . 20 

935  Borderland.  Jessie  Fothergill.  20 

936  Nellie’s  Memories.  Rosa  Nou- 

chette Carey.  Two  Parts, each  20 

937  Cashel  Byron’s  Profession.  By 

George  Bernard  Shaw 20 

938  Cranford.  By  Mrs.  Gaskeli 20 

939  Why  Not?  Florence  Marryat..  20 

940  The  Merry  Men,  and  Other  Tales 

and  Fables.  By  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson 20 

941  Jess.  By  II.  Rider  Haggard. . . 20 

942  Cash  on  Delivery.  By  F.  Du 

Boisgobey : 20 

943  Weavers  and  Weft;  or,  “ Love 

that  Hath  Us  in  His  Net.”  By 
Miss  M.  E.  Braddon 20 

944  The  Professor.  By  Charlotte 

Bronte 20 

945  The  Trumpet-Major.  Thomas 

Hardy 20 

946  The  Dead  Secret.  By  Wilkie 

Collins 20 

947  Publicans  and  Sinners;  or,  Lu- 

cius Davoren.  By  Miss  M.  E. 
Braddon.  First  half 20 

947  Publicans  and  Sinners:  or,  Lu- 

cius Davoren.  By  Miss  M.  E. 

Braddon.  Second  half 20 

293  The  Shadow  of  a Sin.  By  Char- 
lotte M-  Braeme,  author  of 
“Dora  Thorne” 10 

948  The  Shadow  of  a Sin.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“Dora  Thorne.”  (Large  type 
edition) 20 

949  Claribel’s  Love  Story;  or, 

Love’s  Hidden  Depths.  By 
Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 

of  “Dora  Thorne” 20 

25  Mrs.  Geoffrey.  By  “The  Duch- 
ess.” (Large  type  edition). . . 20 

950  Mrs.  Geoffrey.  “ The  Duchess  ” 10 
459  Woman’s  Temptation,  A.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 
of  “Dora  Thorne.”  (Large 
type  edition) 20 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY — Pocket  Edition. 


17 


951  Woman's  Temptation,  A.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 

of  “ Dora  Thorne  11 10 

895  Woman’s  War,  A.  By  Charlotte 
M.  Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne” *. 10 

952  Woman’s  War,  A.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne.”  (Large  type  edition)  20 
297  Hilary’s  Folly;  or.  Her  Mar- 
riage Vow.  By  Charlotte  M. 
Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

953  Hilary’s  Folly;  or,  Her  Mar- 

riage Vow.  By  Charlotte  M. 
Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne.”  (Large  type  edition)  20 

954  A Girl’s  Heart.  By  the  author 

of  “Nobody’s  Darling” 20 

288  From  Gloom  to  Sunlight;  or. 
From  Out  the  Gloom.  By 
Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 
of  “ Dora  Thorne  ” 10 


955  From  Gloom  to  Sunlight;  or. 

From  Out  the  Gloom.  By 
Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 
of  “Dora  Thorne.”  (Large 
type  edition) 20 

956  Her  Johnnie.  By  Violet  Whyte  20 

957  The  Woodlanders.  By  Thomas 

Hardy 20 

958  A Haunted  Life;  or,  Her  Terri- 

ble Sin.  Charlotte  M.  Braeme, 
author  of  “ Dora  Thorne  ”...  20 

959  Dawn.  By  H.  Rider  Haggard.  20 

960  Elizabeth’s  Fortune.  By  Bertha 

Thomas 20 

961  Wee  Wifie.  By  Rosa  Nouchette 

Carey 20 

962  Sabina  Zembra.  By  William 

Black.  First  half 20 

962  Sabina  Zembra.  By  William 

Black.  Second  half 20 

963  Worth  Winning.  By  Mrs.  H. 

Lovett  Cameron 20 

961  A Struggle  for  the  Right;  or, 

Tracking  the  Truth 20 

965  Periwinkle.  By  Arnold  Gray. . 20 

966  He,  by  the  author  of  “King 

Solomon’s  Wives”;  and  A 
Siege  Baby  and  Childhood’s 

Memories,  by  J.  S.  Winter 20 

23?  Repented  at  Leisure.  By  Char- 
lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“ Dora  Thorne.”  (Large  type 
edition) 20 

967  Repented  at  Leisure.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“Dora  Thorne” 10 

968  Blossom  and  Fruit;  or,  Ma- 

dame’s  Ward.  By  the  author 
of  “ Wedded  Hands  20 

969  The  Mystery  of  Colde  Fell ; or, 

Not  Proven.  By  Charlotte  M. 
Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 


9?'0  King  Solomon’s  Wives;  or,  The 
Phantom  Mines.  By  Hyder 
Ragged.  (Illustrated) 20 

971  Garrison  Gossip:  Gathered  in 

Blankhampton.  By  John 
Strange  Winter 20 

972  Gold  Elsie.  By  E.  Marlitt 20 

973  The  Squire’s  Darling.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“ Dora  Thorne  ” 20 

974  Strathmore;  or,  Wrought  by 

His  Own  Hand.  By  “ Ouida.” 
First  half 20 

974  Strathmore;  or,  Wrought  bj*- 

His  Own  Hand.  By  “ Ouida.” 
Second  half 20 

975  A Dark  Marriage  Morn.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 
of  “Dora  Thorne” 20 

976  Robur  the  Conqueror;  or,  A 

Trip  Round  the  World  in  a 
Flying  Machine.  Jules  Verne  20 

977  The  Haunted  Hotel.  By  Wilkie 

Collins 20 

978  Her  Second  Love.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“Dora  Thorne” 20 

979  The  Count’s  Secret.  By  Emile 

Gaboriau.  Parti 20 

979  The  Count’s  Secret.  By  Emile 

Gaboriau.  Part  II 20 

980  To  Call  Her  Mine.  By  Walter 

Besant 20 

981  Granville  deVigne;  or,  Held  in 

Bondage.  By  “Ouida.”  1st 
half 20 

981  Granville  deVigne;  or.  Held  in 

Bondage.  By  “Ouida.”  2d 
half 20 

982  The  Duke’s  Secret.  By  Char- 

lotte 31.  Braeme,  author  of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

983  Uarda.  A Romance  of  Ancient 

Egypt.  By  George  Ebers 20 

984  Her  Own  Sister.  By  E^  S. 

Williamson 20 

985  On  Her  Wedding  Morn,  and 

The  3Iystery  of  the  Holly- 
Tree.  Charlotte  M.  Braeme, 
author  of  “ Dora  Thorne  ” 20 

986  The  Great  Hesper.  By  Frank 

Barrett 20 

987  Brenda  Yorke,  and  Upon  the 

Waters.  By  3Tary  Cecil  Hay.  20 

988  The  Shattered  Idol,  and  Letty 

Leigh.  Charlotte  31.  Braeme, 
author  of  “ Dora  Thorne  ”...  20 

989  Allan  Quatermain.  By  H.  Rider 

Haggard 20 

990  The  Earl’s  Error,  and  Arnold’s 

Promise.  By  Charlotte  M. 
Braeme,  author  of  “Dora 
Thorne” 20 

991  Mr.  3Tidshipman  Easy.  By  Cap- 

tain Marry  at ~.  20 

992  Marrying  and  Giving  in  3Iar- 

riage.  By  Mrs.  Molesworth...  20 

993  Fighting  the  Air.  By  Florence 

Marry  at 20 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY— Pocket  Edition. 


18  ' 


994  A Penniless  Orphan.  By  W. 

Heimburg 20 

995  An  Unnatural  Bondage,  and 

That  Beautiful  Lady.  By 
Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 
of  “ Dora  Thorne” 20 


996  Idalia.  By  “ Ouida.”  1st  half.  20 
996  Idalia.  By  “Ouida.”  2d  half.  20 
99T  Forging  the  Fetters,  and  The 
Australian  Aunt.  By  Mrs. 
Alexander 20 

998  Open,  Sesame!  By  Florence 

Marryat 20 

999  The  Second  Wife.  E.  Marlitt.  20 
1000  Puck.  By  “ Ouida.”  1st  half  20 

1000  Puck.  By  “ Ouida.”  2d  half.  20 

1001  Lady  Adelaide’s  Oath;  or.  The 

Castle's  Heir.  By  Mrs.  Henry 


Wood  20 

1002  Marriage  at  a Venture.  By 

Emile  Gaboriau 20 

1003  Chandos.  By  “ Ouida.”  1st 

half 20 

1003  Chandos.  By  “Ouida.”  2d 

half 20 

1004  Mad  Dumaresq.  By  Florence 

Marryat 20 

1005  99  Dark  Street.  F.  W.  Robinson  20 

1006  His  Wife’s  Judgment.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 
of  “Dora  Thorne ” 20 

1007  Miss  Gascoigne.  By  Mrs.  J. 

H.  Riddell 20 

1008  A Thorn  in  Her  Heart.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme,  author 
of  “Dora  Thorne” 20 

1009  In  an  Evil  Hour,  and  Other 

Stories.  By  “ The  Duchess  ” 20 

1010  Golden  Gates.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme,  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne  ” 20 

1011  Texar’s  Vengeance;  or,  North 

Versus  South.  Jules  Verne. 
Part  1 20 

1011  Texar’s  Vengeance ; or,  North 

Versus  South.  By  J ules  Verne 
Part  II 20 

1012  A Nameless  Sin.  By  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme,  author  of  “Dora 
Thorne  ” 20 


1013  The  Confessions  of  Gerald 

Estcourt.  Florence  Marryat.  20 

1014  A Mad  Love.  By  Charlotte  M. 

Rrnpmfi  niitlint'  nf  “ 


Thorne” 20 

1015  A Thousand  Francs  Reward. 

By  Emile  Gaboriau 20 

1016  A Modern  Circe.  By  “The 

Duchess” 20 


1017  Txicotrin.  TheStory  of  a Waif 
and  Stray.  “Ouida.”  1st  half  20 

1017  Tricotrin.  The  Story  of  a Waif 

and  Stray.  “Ouida.”  2d  half  20 

1018  Two  Marriages.  By  Miss  Mu- 

lock  20 

1019  Major  and  Minor.  By  W.  E. 

Norris.  1st  half 20 

1019  Major  and  Minor.  By  W.  E. 
Norris.  2d  half 20 


1020  Michael  Strogoff ; or,  The  Cou- 

rier of  the  Czar.  Jules  Verne  20 

1021  The  Heir  to  Ashley,  and  The 

Red -Court  Farm.  By  Mrs. 
Henry  Wood 20 

1022  Driven  to  Bay.  By  Florence 

Marryat 20 

1023  Next  of  Kin— Wanted.  By  M. 

Betham-Ed  wards 20 

1024  Under  the  Storm;  or.  Stead- 

fast’s Charge.  By  Charlotte 
M.  Yonge 20 

1025  Daisy’s  Dilemma.  By  Mrs.  H. 

Lovett  Cameron 20 

1026  A Dark  Inheritance.  By  Mary 

Cecil  Hay 20 

1027  A Life’s  Secret.  By  Mrs.  Henry 

Wood 20 

1028  A Devout  Lover ; or,  A Wasted 

Love.  By  Mrs.  H.  Lovett  Cam- 
eron.  20 

1029  Armadale.  By  Wilkie  Collins. 

1st  half 20 

1029  Armadale.  By  Wilkie  Collins. 

2d  half 20 

1030  The  Mistress  of  Ibichstein.  By 

Fr.  Henkel 20 

1031  Irene’s  Vow.  By  Charlotte  M. 

Braeme,  author  of  “Dora 
Thorne” 20 

1032  Mignon’s  Husband.  By  John 

Strange  Winter. 20 

1033  Esther:  A Story  for  Girls.  By 

Rosa  Nouchette  Carey 20 

1034  The  Silence  of  Dean  Maitland. 

By  Maxwell  Gray 20 

1035  The  Duchess.  By  “ The  Duch- 

ess”  20 

1036  Like  and  Unlike.  By  Miss  M. 

E.  Braddon 20 

1037  Scheherazade:  A London 

Night’s  Entertainment.  By 
Florence  Warden 20 

1038  Mistress  and  Maid.  By  Miss 

Mulock 20 

1039  Driver  Dallas.  By  John  Strange 

Winter '. 10 

1040  Clarissa’s  Ordeal.  By  the  au- 

thor of  “A  Great  Mistake.” 
First  half 20 

1040  Clarissa’s  Ordeal.  By  the  au- 

thor of  “ A Great  Mistake.” 
Second  half 20 

1041  Home  Again.  By  George  Mac- 

donald  20 

1042  Lady  Grace.  Mrs.  Henry  Wood  20 

1043  Faust.  By  Goethe 20 

1044  The  Frozen  Pirate.  By  W. 

Clark  Russell 20 

1045  The  13th  Hussars.  By  Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

1046  Jessie.  By  the  author  of  “ Ad- 

die’s  Husband  ” 20 

1047  Marvel.  By  “The  Duchess”..  20 
1043  The  Wreck  of  the  “Grosvenor.” 

By  W.  Clark  Russell 20 

1049  A Tale  of  Three  Lions,  and  On 


Going  Back.  H.  Rider  Haggard  *20 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY— Pocket  Edition. 


19 


1050  The  Tour  of  the  World  in  80 

Days.  By  Jules  Verne 20 

1051  The  Misadventures  of  John 

Nicholson.  By  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson... 10 

1052  Signa’s  Sweetheart.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme,  author  of 
“ Dora  Thorne  ” 20 

1053  Young  Mrs.  Jardine.  By  Miss 

Mulock 20 

1054  Mona’s  Choice.  By  Mrs.  Alex- 

ander  20 

1055  Katharine  Regina.  By  Walter 

Besant 20 

1050  The  Bride  of  the  Nile.  By 
George  Ebers.  1st  half 20 

1056  The  Bride  of  the  Nile.  By 

George  Ebers.  2d  half 20 

1057  A Life  Interest.  B}^  Mrs.  Alex- 

ander  20 


1058  Masaniello ; or.  The  Fisherman 

of  Naples.  Alexander  Dumas  20 

1059  Confessions  of  an  English  Opi- 

um-Eater, and  The  English 
Mail-Coach.  By  Thomas  De 


Quincey 20 

1060  The  Lady  of  the  Lake.  By  Sir 

Walter  Scott,  Bart 20 

1061  A Queer  Race : The  Story  of  a 

Strange  People.  By  William 
Westall 20 

1062  The  Deerslayer;  or,  The  First 

War-Path.  By  J.  Fenimore 
Cooper.  First  half 20 

1062  The  Deerslayer;  or,  The  First 

War-Path.  By  J.  Fenimore 
Cooper.  Second  Half 20 

1063  Kenilworth.  By  Sir  Walter 

Scott,  Bart.  First  half 20 

1063  Kenilworth.  By  Sir  Walter 

Scott,  Bart.  Second  half 20 

1064  Only  the  Governess.  By  Rosa 

Nouchette  Carey 20 

1065  Herr  Paulus:  His  Rise,  His 

Greatness,  and  His  Fall.  By 
Walter  Besant 20 

1066  My  Husband  and  I.  By  Count 

Lyof  Tolstoi 10 

1067  Saint  Michael.  By  E.  Werner. 

First  half 20 

1067  Saint  Michael.  By  E.  Werner. 

Second  half 20 

1068  Vendetta!  or,  The  Story  of  One 

Forgotten.  By  Marie  Corelli.  20 

1069  Polikouchka.  By  Count  Lyof 

Tolstoi 10 

1070  A Life’s  Mistake.  By  Mrs.  H. 

Lovett  Cameron 20 

1071  The  Death  of  Ivan  Iliitch.  By 

Count  Lyof  Tolstoi 10 

1072  Only  a Coral  Girl.  By  Gertrude 

Forde 20 

1073  Two  Generations.  By  Count 

Lyof  Tolstoi 10 

1074  Stormy  Waters.  By  Robert 

Buchanan 20 

1075  The  Mystery  of  a Hansom  Cab. 

By  Fergus  W.  Hume 20 


1076  The  Mystery  of  an  Omnibus. 

By  F.  Du  Boisgobey 20 

1077  The  Nun’s  Curse.  Bjt  Mrs.  J. 

H.  Riddell 20 

1078  The  Slaves  of  Paris.  By  Emile 

Gaboriau.  First  half 20 

1078  The  Slaves  of  Paris.  By  Emile 

Gaboriau.  Second  half 20 

1079  Beautiful  Jim:  of  the  Blank- 

shire  Regiment.  By  John 
Strange  Winter 20 

1080  Bertha’s  Secret.  By  F.  Du 

Boisgobey.  1st  half 20 

1080  Bertha’s  Secret.  By  F.  Du 

Boisgobey.  2d  half 20 

1081  Too  Curious.  By  Edward  J. 

Goodman 20 

1082  The  Severed  Hand.  By  F.  Du 

Boisgobey.  1st  half 20 

1082  The  Severed  Hand.  By  F.  Du 

Boisgobey.  2d  half 2a 

1083  The  Little  Old  Man  of  the  Bat- 

ignolles.  By  Emiie  Gaboriau  10 

1084  Chris.  By  W.  E.  Norris 20 

1085  The  Matapan  Affair.  By  F.  Du 

Boisgobey.  1st  half 20 

1085  The  Matapan  Affair.  By  F.  Du 

Boisgobey.  2d  half 20 

1086  Nora.  By  Carl  Detlef 20 

1087  A Woman’s  Face;  or,  A Lake- 

land Mystery.  By  F.  Warden  20 

1088  The  Old  Age  of  Monsieur  Le- 

coq.  By  F.  Du  Boisgobey.  1st 
half 20 

1088  The  Old  Age  of  Monsieur  Le- 

coq.  By  F.  Du  Boisgobey.  2d 
half 20 

1089  Home  Sounds.  By  E.  Werner  20 

1090  The  Cossacks.  By  Count  Lyof 

Tolstoi 20 

1091  A Modern  Cinderella.  By  Char- 

lotte M.  Braeme 10 

1092  A Glorious  Gallop.  By  Mrs. 

Edward  Kennard 20 

1093  In  the  Schillingscourt.  By  E. 

Marlitt 20 

1094  Homo  Sum.  By  George  Ebers . 20 

1095  The  Legacy  of  Cain.  By  Wilkie 

Collins 20 

1096  The  Strange  Adventures  of  a 

House-Boat.  William  Black  20 

1097  The  Burgomaster’s  Wife.  By 

George  Ebers 20 

1098  The  Fatal  Three.  By  Miss  M. 

E.  Braddon 20 

1099  The  Lasses  of  Leverhouse.  By 

Jessie  Fothergill 20 

1100  Mr.  Meeson’s  Will.  By  H Rider 

Haggard 20 

1101  An  Egyptian  Princess.  Vol.  I. 

By  George  Ebers 20 

1101  An  Egyptian  Princess.  Vol.  II. 

By  George  Ebers 20 

1102  Young  Mr.  Barter’s  Repent- 

ance. By  David  Christie  Mur- 
ray   10 

1103  The  Honorable  Mrs.  Vereker. 

By  “The  Duchess” 20 


20 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY— Pocket  Edition, 


1104  The  Heir  of  Linne.  By  Rob- 

ert Buchanan. ...............  20 

1105  Maiwa’s  Revenge.  By  H.  Rider 

Haggard 20 

1106  The  Emperor.  By  George 

Ebers 20 

1107  The  Passenger  from  Scotland 

Yard.  By  H.  F.  Wood. . . . . . 20 

1108  Sebastopol.  By  Count  Lyof 

Tolstoi 20 

1109  Through  the  Long  Nights.  By 

Mrs.  E.  Lynn  Linton.  First 
half 20 

1109  Through  the  Long  Nights.  By 

Mrs.  E.  Lynn  Linton.  Second 
half 20 

1110  The  Silverado  Squatters.  By 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 10 

1111  In  the  Counselor’s  House.  By 

E.  Marlitt 20 

1112  Only  a Word.  By  George 

Ebers 20 

1113  The  Bailiff’s  Maid.  By  E.  Mar- 

litt  20 

1114  The  Sisters.  By  George  Ebers . 20 

1115  The  Countess  Gisela.  By  E. 

Marlitt 20 

1116  Robert  Elsmere.  By  Mrs.  Hum- 

phry Ward.  1st  half 20 

1116  Robert  Elsmere.  By  Mrs.  Hum- 

phry Ward.  2d  half .'  20 

1117  Princess  Sarah.  By  John  S. 

Winter 10 

1118  The  Elect  Lady.  By  George 

Macdonald 20 

1119  No  Name.  By  Wilkie  Collins. 

First  half 20 

1119  No  Name.  By  Wilkie  Collins. 

Second  half 20 

1120  The  Story  of  an  African  Farm. 

By  Ralph  Iron  (Olive  Schrei- 
ner)  20 

1121  Booties’  Children.  By  John 

Strange  Winter 10 

1122  Eve.  By  S.  Baring-Gould 20 

1123  Under  - Currents.  By  “ The 

Duchess” 20 

1124  Diana  Barrington.  By  B.  M. 

Croker 20. 

1125  The  Mystery  of  a Turkish  Bath. 

By  “Rita” 10 

1126  Gentleman  and  Courtier.  By 

Florence  Marry  at ’.  20 

1127  Madam  Midas.  By  Fergus  W. 

Hume - 20 

1128  Cousin  Pons.  By  Honors  De 

Balzac 20 

1129  The  Flying  Dutchman  : or,  The 

Death  Ship.  By  W.  Clark 
Russell 20 

1130  The  Owl-House.  By  E.  Marlitt  20 

1131  Thelma.  By  Marie  Corelli. 

First  half  20 

1131  Thelma.  By  Marie  Corelli. 

Second  half 20 

1132  In  Far  Lochaber.  By  William 

Black 20 


1133  Our  New  Mistress;  or,  Changes 

at  Brookfield  Earl.  By  Char- 
lotte M.  Yonge 20 

1134  Lord  Elesmere’s  Wife.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme 20 

1135  Aunt  Diana.  By  Rosa  Nou- 

chette  Carey 20 

1136  The  Princess  of  the  Moor.  By 

E.  Marlitt 20 

1137  Prince  Charming.  By  the  au- 
thor of  “ A Great  Mistake  ” . . 20 

1138  A Recoiling  Vengeance.  By 

Frank  Barrett 20 

1139  Tom  Brown  at  Oxford.  By 

Thomas  Hughes.  Vol.  I 20 

1139  Tom  Brown  at  Oxford.  By 

Thomas  Hughes.  Vol.  II 20 

1140  Colonel  Quaritch,  V.  C.  By  H. 

Rider  Haggard 20 

1141  The  Rogue.  By  W.  E.  Norris. 

First  half 20 

1141  The  Rogue.  By  W.  E.  Norris. 

Second  half 20 

1142  Ten  Thousand  a Year.  By 

Samuel  Warren.  Part  1 20 

1142  Ten  Thousand  a Year.  By 

Samuel  Warren.  Part  II 20 

1142  Ten  Thousand  a Year.  Bjr 

Samuel  Warren.  Part  III...  20 

1143  The  Inner  House.  By  Walter 

Besant 20 

1144  Rienzi.  By  Sir  E.  Bulwer  Lyt- 

ton.  1st  half 20 

1144  Rienzi.  By  Sir  E.  Bulwer  Lyt- 

ton.  2d  half 20 

1145  My  Fellow  Laborer,  and  The 

Wreck  of  the  “ Copeland.” 

By  H.  Rider  Haggard 20 

1146  Rhoda  Fleming.  By  George 

Meredith.  1st  half 20 

1146  Rhoda  Fleming.  By  George 

Meredith.  2d  half 20 

1147  Knight-Errant.  ByEdnaLyall. 

1st  half 20 

1147  Knight-Errant.  ByEdnaLyall. 

2d  half 20 

1148  The  Countess  Eve.  By  J.  H. 

Shortliouse 20 

1149  Donovan:  A Modern  English- 

man. By  Edna  Lyall.  1st  half  20 


1149  Donovan:  A Modern  English- 

man. By  Edna  Lyall.  2d  half  20 

1150  The  Egoist.  By  George  Mere- 


dith. 1st  half 20 

1150  The  Egoist.  By  George  Mere- 

dith. 2d  half 20 

1151  For  Faith  and  Freedom.  By 

Walter  Besant 20 

1152  From  the  Earth  to  the  Moon. 

• By  Jules  Verne.  Illustrated.  20 

1153  Round  the  Moon.  By  Jules 

Verne.  Illustrated 20 

1154  A Judgment  of  God.  By  E. 

Werner 20 

1155  Lured  Away;  or,  The  Story  of 

a Wedding  - Ring,  and  The 
Heiress  of  Arne.  By  Char- 
lotte M.  Braeme 20 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY -Pocket  Edition 

Always  Unchanged  and  Unabridged. 

WITH  HANDSOME  LITHOGRAPHED  PAPER  COVER. 

LATEST  ISSUES: 


NO.  PRICrc. 

669  Pole  on  Whist 20 

*432  THE  WITCH’S  HEAD.  By 

H.  Rider  Haggard 20 

1117  Princess  Sarah.  By  John  S. 

Winter 10 

1118  The  Elect  Lady.  By  George 

Macdonald 20 

1119  No  Name.  By  Wilkie  Collins. 

First  half 20 

1119  No  Name.  By  Wilkie  Collins. 

Second  half 20 

1120  The  Story  of  an  African  Farm. 

By  Ralph*  Iron  (Olive  Schrei- 
ner)  20 

1121  Booties’  Children.  By  John 

Strange  Winter 10 

1122  Eve.  By  S.  Baring-Gould 20 

1123  Under  - Currents.  By  “ The 

Duchess” 20 

1124  Diana  Barrington.  By  B.  M. 

Croker 20 

1125  The  Mystery  of  a Turkish  Bath. 

By  “Rita” 10 

1126  Gentleman  and  Courtier.  By 

Florence  Marry  at 20 

1127  Madam  Midas.  By  Fergus  W. 

Hume 20 

1128  Cousin  Pons.  By  Hor>or6  De 

Bcilzctc  20 

1129  The  Flying  Dutchman;  or,  The 

Death  Ship.  By  W.  Clark 
Russell 20 

1130  The  Owl-House.  By  E.  Marlftt  20 

1131  Thelma.  By  Marie'  Corelli. 

First  half 20 

1131  Thelma.  By  Marie  Corelli. 

Second  half 20 

1132  In  Far  Lochaber.  By  William 

Black 20 

1133  Our  New  Mistress;  or,  Changes 

at  Brookfield  Earl.  By  Char- 
lotte M.  Yonge 20 

1134  Lord  Elesmere’s  Wife.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme 20 

1135  Aunt  Diana.  By  Rosa  Nou- 

cherte  Carey 20 

1136  The  Princess  of  the  Moor.  By 

E.  Marlitt 20 

1137  Prince  Charming.  By  the  au- 

thor of  “ A Great  Mistake  . 20 

1138  A Recoiling  Vengeance.  By 

Frank  Barrett 20 


NO.  PRICK. 

1139  Tom  Brown  at  Oxford.  By 
Thomas  Hughes.  Vol.  I 20 

1139  Tom  Brown  at  Oxford.  By 

Thomas  Hughes.  Vol.  IT 20 

1140  Colonel  Quariteh,  V.  C.  By  H. 

Rider  Haggard 20 

1141  The  Rogue.  By  W.  E.  Norris. 

First  half 20 

1141  The  Rogue.  By  W.  E.  Norris. 

Second  half 20 

1142  Ten  Thousand  a Year.  By 

Samuel  Warren.  Part  1 20 

1142  Ten  Thousand  a Year.  By 

Samuel  Warren.  Part  II 20 

1142  Ten  Thousand  a Year.  By 

Samuel  Warren.  Part  III...  20 

1143  The  Inner  House.  By  Walter 

Besant 20 

1144  Rienzi.  By  Sir  E.  Bulwer  Lyt- 

ton.  1st  half 20 

1144  Rienzi.  By  Sir  E.  Bulwer  Lyt- 

ton.  2d  half 20 

1145  My  Fellow  Laborer,  and  The 

Wreck  of  • the  “ Copeland.” 

By  H.  Rider  Haggard 20 

1146  Rhoda  Fleming.  By  George 

Meredith.  1st  half 20 

1146  Rhoda  Fleming.  By  George 

Meredith.  2d  half 20 

1147  Knight-Errant.  ByEdnaLyall. 

1st  half 20 

1147  Knight-Errant.  ByEdnaLyall. 

2d  half 20 

1148  The  Countess  Eve.  By  J.  H. 

Shorthouse 20 

1149  Donovan:  A Modern  English- 

man. By  Edna  Lyall.  1st  half  20 

1149  Donovan : A Modern  English- 
man. By  Edna  Lyall.  2d  half  20 

1150  The  Egoist.  By  George  Mere- 


dith. 1st  half 20 

1150  The  Egoist.  By  George  Mere- 

dith. 2d  half 20 

1151  For  Faith  and  Freedom.  By- 

Walter  Besant.  1st  half 20 

1151  For  Faith  and  Freedom.  By 

Walter  Besant.  2d  half 20 

1154  A Judgment  of  God.  By  E. 

Werner 20 

1156  A Witch  of  the  Hills.  By  Flor- 
ence Warden 20 


A handsome  catalogue  containing  complete  and  classified  lists  of  all  George 
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